


Hold My Hand, Let's Turn to Ash

by Sendnukes



Series: Hold My Hand, Let's Turn to Ash [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Choking, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Smut, Spoilers, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-22 23:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13774794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sendnukes/pseuds/Sendnukes
Summary: MacCready is pretty sure that the only thing behind all the lies and sunglasses are more lies. Turns out, he's wrong.





	1. Let's All Go Play Nagasaki

The first time MacCready lays eyes on the enigmatic Railroad spy, he hardly notices him. Trailing behind Will, finger still on the trigger of his rifle, he tries not to look around Diamond City in the childlike way of someone seeing a place for the first time. He’d been to the Great Green Jewel before, but it always took him some adjusting to get used to the relative cleanliness and safety of the place.

 

“Haven’t been to Diamond City in years,” he remarks, “but I’ll tell ya, nothing’s changed”.

 

He has to remind himself that this isn't Goodneighbor; there’s no settling things with a well-placed bullet. Not unless he wants every single Diamond City guard to turn their rifles on him. Or worse, beat him to death with those nasty looking baseball bats.

 

_They really take this baseball thing too seriously._

 

MacCready keeps his eyes on the guards as they made their way down the steps. They look ridiculous in what Will helpfully tells him is pre-War baseball gear. MacCready can’t imagine that the feeble amount of padding offered by their uniforms would stop a bullet, but he isn't trying to find out. The guards watch them silently behind their blank-looking helmets as they pass. All except one.

 

MacCready eyes the guard suspiciously. He’s wearing the uniform but not the helmet. What’s even odder is that he’s wearing sunglasses. It’s dark enough that the lights of Takahashi’s noodle bar are reflected back at MacCready as he stares at the man. He feels a familiar niggling in his stomach. Will likes to call that feeling “paranoia”. MacCready prefers to call it intuition. Will is sharp, and an ex-soldier to boot, but he hasn't learned to rely on that feeling the way MacCready has.

 

“What, it’s too bright for him?” he mutters under his breath, low enough Will doesn’t catch it. 

 

The guard stares back at him, his face blank. MacCready feels his anxiety turn to annoyance. Clearly the man is wearing those stupid sunglasses to make him harder to read and it’s working. MacCready, who has spent years feeling the imaginary sting of a bullet between his shoulders, does not appreciate the inability to size up someone holding a gun, even in Diamond City.

 

“Hey.”

 

MacCready’s finger unconsciously tightens on the trigger, the only indication that the man has startled him. He realizes that he had probably been staring a little too long.

 

“What’s up?” the guard asks casually.

 

MacCready scowls at him, although he can't fault the guy. Actually, he admires him for his restraint. If someone had stared at MacCready that long, he’d have broken their nose by now. Will finally notices MacCready isn’t in tow anymore, and turns back, his face a mix of concern and amusement.

 

“Everything okay, Mac?” he questions, placing a hand heavily on MacCready’s shoulder that clearly says _don’t even think about starting anything._

 

“Fine,” MacCready replies, watching the guard light a cigarette, following the smoke with his eyes as it drifts up over their heads and disappears into the murky sky.

 

The guard continues to watch them silently, the ghost of a smirk playing around his lips. MacCready’s own lips thin in annoyance, and he brushes past Will without a word, making it halfway to the Dugout Inn before Will catches up with him. Thankfully, Will doesn’t ask what that had been about. MacCready mentally adds that to the list of reasons he likes his employer-turned-travelling companion; he doesn’t push MacCready to talk. Long stretches of their time in the Commonwealth are spent in companionable silence, and MacCready sincerely appreciates it.

 

MacCready collapses at a table while Will buys two drinks from Vadim, who he vaguely hears greeting Will warmly. MacCready, still on edge, shifts in his seat, trying to angle his back against the wall as much as possible. They may be in Diamond City, with it’s weird fucking guards, but they are still in a bar and MacCready certainly knows things can go south quickly when alcohol is involved. He’s relieved when Will finishes his chat with the bartender and sits down across from him. He may be lousy with a sniper rifle, but he’s a crack shot with almost every other gun MacCready had ever seen him touch, and he feels almost safe when Will is around.

 

MacCready takes a sip of the moonshine and almost groans in pleasure as the sinfully strong drink burns going down. They had been walking for what seemed like months, although it had probably only been a week, and a strong drink has been MacCready’s light at the end of the tunnel.

 

“So, how long are we here for, boss?” he asks, taking another sip of Bobrov’s Best and rolling it around his mouth.

 

He isn’t crazy about Diamond City, but he has to admit it might be nice to hole up somewhere relatively death free for awhile. Sleep in a real bed, eat as much noodles as Will would buy him, repair his gun. . .

 

His fantasy is cut painfully short by Will’s nonchalant reply of, “Just overnight.”

 

MacCready slams his glass down a bit harder than intended and Will raises an eyebrow in ill-concealed amusement.

 

“You made me walk across the entire fu-freaking ‘Wealth for a sleepover in Diamond City?” he demands, clenching his fist.

 

“I’m sorry Mac,” Will says, looking appropriately guilty, “but I gotta meet with Valentine. After I killed that motherfucker Kellogg, I retrieved that cybernetic brain augmenter, but I had some other loose ends to tie up. I told Nick I’d meet him back here. He said he might know a way to decrypt it or something.”

 

That was another thing MacCready likes about his new boss; he fills him in without Mac having to ask. MacCready hates not knowing things, but his time with the Gunners had made him wary about questioning his orders or inquiring about plans. If he hadn’t run with the Gunners, perhaps he would have asked Will how long they would be in Diamond City for and could have told him to screw right off when he told him just overnight.

 

“But hey,” Will says, that note of sympathy in his voice that MacCready hates to hear because it makes him worry about his boss, makes him wonder how he can be so compassionate in this world and not be dead yet, “Why don’t you stay here? It’ll be boring to listen to Nick and I. And I shouldn’t be long. And,” he speaks louder as MacCready opens his mouth to argue, “I’m in Diamond City. There are guards everywhere. You can take one night off from watching my back. I’ll be fine. I promise.” 

 

MacCready considers this. Under normal circumstances he would vehemently refuse to leave Will’s side, but his feet hurt like a son of bitch and honestly, Will is right. Nick’s was a stone’s throw from the inn, if anything happened, Will basically just had to yell loud enough and Mac would come running. Suddenly, the face of the guard that had set him on edge pops into his mind’s eye and MacCready tries to ignore the protest in his feet as he hauls himself up. He won't be leaving Will’s side with that weirdo patrolling around. MacCready opens his mouth to say so, but Will is calling to Vadim to start him a tab and put whatever MacCready orders on it. Will turns back to MacCready, throws down a pack of the cigarettes he knew the man had been planning on selling, and grins at him.

 

“C’mon, Mac. As invaluable as you are to me, I did get by without you for like four months. Anyways, Nick’s office is pretty small, not really enough room. Just stay here, take a load off. If I’m not back in two hours, you can come check on me”.

 

And before MacCready can protest, Will jogs towards the door. He shoots a grin at MacCready over his shoulder before he leaves, and MacCready sighs and sits back down, his feet thanking him.

 

_Well fine. If that idiot gets killed it’s his own darn fault. I tried to come with him._

 

But, as MacCready stretches his legs out on the now empty seat across from him, lights a cigarette, and thanks Vadim for the new drink he brings him, he can’t help feel some of the tension melt from his shoulders. It’s nice to take a break for a night.


	2. We Can All Get Vaporized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s always nice to have new people to . . . guard. Cause that’s what I do. I guard ‘em.”

A half hour and three drinks later and MacCready is definitely satisfied with his decision to stay at the Dugout. His head is comfortably warm and heavy as he amicably chats with Vadim about the comings and goings in Diamond City. Under normal circumstances, MacCready wouldn’t give a damn about whatever went on in this weird little town, but those Bobrov brothers sure made some strong moonshine. MacCready is just about to ask how they made it, when someone takes a seat next to him. His manages to form a hazy thought that he needed to stop drinking if he hadn’t heard someone enter the inn and come up behind him, and those thoughts become a hell of a lot sharper when he realizes the stranger sitting next to him is wearing tinted browline sunglasses. 

 

He tries to pull his thoughts together enough to confront the man, when Vadim greets him jovially. The guard orders a drink and MacCready watches him accept it, take a sip, and set it down. MacCready isn’t drunk enough to not notice that the amount of liquid in the glass has not changed. He might have run with the Gunners but he isn’t stupid. In fact, as Will often notes to MacCready’s secret pleasure, MacCready is actually quite perceptive. He tries to marshall his thoughts, trying to find the conclusion that the untouched drink leads to. The man is pretending to drink, but isn’t actually. He wants to give off the illusion that he’s relaxing at a bar, loosening up, but he doesn’t want to forgo full control of his abilities and state of mind to give that impression. MacCready’s alarm bells start to ring.  

 

“What a day, huh?”

 

Again, MacCready is startled from his increasing apprehension by the guy speaking to him. MacCready pushes his own drink away, his hand slowly moving for his holdout pistol he keeps tucked in his waistband. 

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

 

The guy nods slightly at MacCready’s side, and he wonders how this guy could know he had a gun there. Maybe his movements weren’t as subtle as he thinks right now. 

 

“What do you want?” MacCready demands, ignoring the man and wrapping his fingers around the pistol but keeping his hand inside his jacket. He glances quickly at Vadim who is absorbed in conversation with another patron.

 

“Relax, man,” the guard drawls, “My shift ended, I’m grabbing a drink.”

 

“A drink you’re not even going to  _ drink _ ?” MacCready can’t help himself, the moonshine has loosened his tongue and he feels like a kid again, unable to exercise any sort of impulse control. His impulsivity had earned him the title of Mayor as a child, but things are different with adults. There was a dance to play, you couldn’t just come out and say things. To his surprise however, the guard laughs. It’s a charming and carefree sound that catches MacCready off guard. 

 

“You’re sharper than I thought. My apologies. Here, better?” the guy asks, taking a swig of his drink. 

 

_ Not really,  _ MacCready thinks but stubbornly keeps his mouth shut. 

 

“Look,” the guy sighs, “if you want the truth, the Mayor wants eyes kept on anyone new who comes through here who looks important. I was gonna try and chat you up, find out your story but clearly you’re on to me. Shouldn’t have even tried, you look smarter than all those other idiots who come through here.”

 

Something in his story doesn’t sit right with MacCready. He is vaguely aware that the guy is trying to distract him with flattery. MacCready knows he’s lying. But what is he going to say?  _ I know I don’t look smart _ doesn’t sound like the best response. MacCready settles for a noncommittal grunt, hoping the guy will leave him alone. He doesn’t. 

 

“So what is your story?”

 

MacCready stares at him. 

 

“Aww, c’mon. I gotta go back to the Mayor with some info. Throw me something! You and your friend staying around or just passing through?”

 

“Just passing through.”

 

MacCready doesn’t know why he answers him. It might be the liquor still pumping through his bloodstream or it might be the the way the guy is looking at him, face open and friendly except for what he can’t see behind the sunglasses, lips pouting dramatically. 

 

“Shame. It’s always nice to have new people to . . . guard. Cause that’s what I do. I guard ‘em.”

 

MacCready glances sideways at the guy, wondering for a second if he misread him. Maybe he’s just weird. Like really weird. Or maybe he’s lying. Either way, MacCready knows it’s time to extricate himself. 

 

“Riiight. Well I’ve got to get going,” he says, standing up and nodding at Vadim.

The guard stands up too, and MacCready takes pleasure in noting that he’s got a couple inches on the guy. To his surprise, the guy sticks out his hand. MacCready, against his better judgement, takes it, wondering if he’ll get a knife in the gut for it. 

 

“It’s been a pleasure, stranger,” the guy says, and MacCready can feel his eyes on him behind the tinted lenses. 

 

Suddenly, the man steps closer to MacCready, their hands still grasped together. His voice is low, more serious. “Watch yourself out there. My boss isn’t the only one who considers you and your partner people of interest.”

 

Before MacCready can fully process what he’s just said, the other man has left a couple caps by his still half-full drink and has slipped out the door. When MacCready comes back to his senses a second later, he yanks the door open, eyes wildly searching for the man. Diamond City is quiet and nearly deserted however. He scans the faces of the few people still milling about, but he can see from a mile away none of them are him. 

 

MacCready makes the thirty second walk to Valentine’s with his pistol gripped firmly in his hand and more than a couple glances over his shoulder.


	3. Hold My Hand, Let's Turn to Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well MacCready, now that we know each other, how about that drink?”

By the time MacCready and Will reach Goodneighbor, MacCready has almost successfully put the incident at the bar out of his mind. He’d immediately told Will about the man, but Will seemed unconcerned. “Probably just a friendly guard looking out for us,” he’d said. MacCready bit his tongue, refraining from reminding Will that _he_ was the only one foolish enough to look out for strangers. MacCready and everyone else who had grown up in this post-war nightmare learned quickly to only look out for themselves and, if they were lucky, their families.

 

However, the trek between the two cities succeeded in mostly distracting MacCready  Slaughtering deathclaws and feral ghouls often had that effect on him. Especially feral ghouls.

 - -

 

The sun is setting by the time the pair reach Goodneighbor. MacCready is ready to head to his old stomping grounds, The Third Rail might not have Bobrov’s Best, but it does have Magnolia and the lawlessness that Hancock so generously provides. Will, however, heads straight for the Memory Den, MacCready following with a sigh. He takes a seat in a dilapidated chair in the Den’s basement, while Will and Doctor Amari discuss things he can’t begin to understand. He’s only slightly surprised when Valentine shows up and the three huddle together, talking in low, fervent voices.

 

MacCready casts his eyes around, trying not to stare at the man in the large pod across from him. He lights a cigarette, pretending not to see Amari’s disapproving glare.

 

“C’mere a sec, Mac,” Will calls to him.

 

Dutifully, MacCready ambles over. Will slings an arm around his shoulders, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and taking a drag. MacCready is far too aware of the warm weight of Will’s arm, the way the cigarette dangles lightly from his lips. He looks away.

 

“Listen, Nick and I are going to go into Kellogg’s memories, more or less,” Will tells him, “God knows how long it will take and it’s going to be pretty dull for those not inside that sick son of a bitch’s mind.”

 

Will is smiling but his eyes are dark and MacCready can’t even imagine having to delve into the mind of the feral that murdered Lucy. Not that there would be much mind to delve into, but still. He can’t quite bring himself to ask Will what he wants to, can’t bring himself to ask _Will you be okay? Do you want me to stay with you?_ He tries to convey it with a raise of his eyebrows and he thinks Will gets it because he squeezes his shoulder and smiles, a real smile that reaches his eyes.

 

“Go on down and get us a room at the Rexford, then head over to the Rail,” Will assures him, “I’ll be over when we’re done.”

 

MacCready turns back to look at Will when he reaches the door. Will looks up from his conversation with Amari and grins at him. MacCready smiles uncertainty back, hoping it’s the same Will that comes out of Kellogg’s mind as the one that goes in.

 

\- -

 

It’s ridiculously good to be back in Goodneighbor. Charlie pours him a shot on the house and a couple of other friendly faces buy him some more. By the time MacCready takes his favorite worn-out armchair, sips his shit beer and watches Magnolia sing, he’s comfortably drunk.

 

After leaving the Gunners he had offered his services to Magnolia after seeing all the jerks that whistled at her. Told her he’d take care of her, make sure no one messed with her. He winced remembering how starry-eyed he’d looked at her, like a puppy. It was just as hard to find beautiful things in the Commonwealth as in the Wasteland. But she’d laughed at him, not unkindly, and told him while she appreciated it, she could more than handle herself. When she saw her break some guy’s arm who tried to cop a feel, he understood why she wouldn’t waste the caps. She had remained a friendly face, however, and now she waggled her fingers at him from across the room. He smiled and tipped his beer at her.

 

“Wish she’d wave at me like that”.

 

MacCready shrugs at the guy taking a seat across from him, glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Ratty flannel shirt and dirty jeans, shaved head, and those goddamn sunglasses. Was this a new fashion trend in the ‘Wealth? If so it was fucking absurd. MacCready watches the guy sway along to Magnolia’s song. He looks familiar but then again, everyone looks familiar in Goodneighbor.

 

“You come here a lot?” MacCready asks.

 

“Is that supposed to be a pick-up line?” the guy laughs.

 

MacCready flushes, glares at him.

 

“No it was not. You just look familiar. Wondered if you were part of the normal crowd.”

 

The guy smiles broadly at him, all white teeth and handsome laugh lines. MacCready can’t keep the scowl on his face.

 

“Just fuckin’ with you, man. But no, I’m just passing through. I’m a drifter. I . . . drift.”

 

The way he says that makes something in MacCready’s memory stir but the alcohol is drowning it and when the guy speaks again, MacCready loses the thought.

 

“You from here?”

 

MacCready quirks an eyebrow at him. “I don’t think many people are _from_ Goodneighbor.”

 

“See? How little I know of the place.”

 

The guy is still smiling at him and he shifts uncomfortably. He’s saved from responding by Will throwing himself down on the seat next to him.

 

He doesn’t look good. His eyes are suspiciously red and puffy and his hair looks like he’s run his hands through it about a thousand times. MacCready silently hands him the rest of his beer and Will takes it with a grunt of thanks.

 

“So I take it that went . . .”

 

“Terrible,” Will confirms. “We got what we wanted but being inside his mind almost made me lose mine.”

 

MacCready tries to think of something comforting to say but is distracted by the drifter.

 

“Hey man, sounds like a hell of a night. Let me buy you a drink.”

 

Will readily accepts and MacCready watches them head to the bar, watches Will down one, two, three shots, watches the drifter pat him on the back, not touching his own drink. The drifter leans in, whispers something to Will and they both glance at Magnolia. The guy seems to be encouraging Will, who gives in and goes to chat up the singer. The drifter returns to his seat and smiles at MacCready again. MacCready does not smile back.

 

“Did you just get him drunk and tell him to try and pick up Magnolia?” he demands.

 

“ . . .yes? Was that not good? Seemed like he was having a rough night. Seems like the type she’d go for too.”

 

MacCready can feel him searching his face behind his sunglasses. “Was that . . . are you two-”

 

“No!” MacCready cuts him off, feeling his face heat up.

 

“Then what’s the problem?” the guy laughs.

 

MacCready considers this. There isn’t really a problem. He’s drunk, Will may as well be too. Hell, he deserves to be far more than MacCready. And if he wants to fuck Magnolia, who is MacCready to stop him. Still, MacCready can’t help but feel a weight in his stomach as he watches her flirt will Will, running a finger up his scarred arm.

 

“Nothing,” he replies when he realizes the drifter is still waiting for an answer.

 

“Alright, well now you look like you’re having a bad night. Let me buy _you_ a drink.”

 

“I don’t know you,” MacCready answers suspiciously.

 

“Yes you do, we’ve been talking for like five minutes!” the guy insists, looking scandalized. MacCready snorts. “Fine, fine. You can call me Max.”

 

“Alrighttt,” MacCready answers slowly. “Max” stares at him.

 

“And you, my new friend?”

 

“MacCready.”

 

“Well MacCready, now that we know each other, how about that drink?”

 

MacCready wonders why this guy is being so generous with his caps but he’s never turned down a free drink before and he’s not about to start.

 

 - -

 

“I swear on my life,” Max says, holding a hand over his heart, “the institute makes synth birds!”

 

MacCready snickers, shaking his head. The Third Rail is in full swing, far too crowded for Mac’s usual liking, but he’s dizzy with liquor and good company. Max turns out to be a sarcastic, witty fucker and MacCready finds that he’s genuinely enjoying himself. Max has moved to sit next to MacCready, letting a smartly dressed ghoul take his seat. It’s an oversized armchair but their legs are still pressed up against each other and MacCready hasn’t been this close to someone save for Will in a long time. Max’s arm is slung over the back of the chair as he jabbers animatedly to MacCready who clutches his drink with two hands, unsure of where to put his own arms.

 

“You okay, Mac?”

 

MacCready starts as Max presses a hand against his leg, just high enough on his thigh to send a jolt down MacCready’s spine. He distantly registers the use of the nickname but the heat of Max’s calloused hand is too distracting to tell the other man off.

 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the din of the bar.

 

“You wanna go somewhere quieter?” Max asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

 

MacCready shrugs. “Sure,” he says, catching one of Charlie’s eyes and nodding at the roped off section.

 

“All yours, mate!” the robot calls to him and he leads Deacon behind the velvet rope.

 

MacCready is relieved for the slight respite from noise the room offers. He catches Max looking around.

 

“This the VIP lounge?” the man asks, laughing.

 

“Something like that.”

 

“So,” Max’s hand is suddenly on his hip, his thumb tracing circles over the worn fabric of Mac’s pants. “You think your friend is having more fun than us right now?”

 

MacCready’s mind flashes to somewhere he really wishes it wouldn’t go. Will fucking Magnolia, thrusting into her, kissing her--

 

He snaps himself out of it. “Yeah, probably,” he admits.

 

Max laughs low in his throat and it’s an entirely different sound than before. It makes the hairs on Mac’s neck stand on end and now he’s all too aware of the other man’s fingers splayed across the sharp jut of his hip. Max leans closer until his breath is hot on MacCready’s neck.

 

“Should we change that?”

 

MacCready can barely hold back a shiver, his mouth suddenly dry. Max slips his fingers under MacCready's shirt, trailing his fingers across his hip bone. This time MacCready can’t help but shudder at how good Max’s fingers feel on his flushed skin. Max presses in a little more against MacCready and he can feel the other man hard against his thigh. His own cock twitches in response.

 

“I--”

 

MacCready is cut off by someone clearing their throat loudly behind them. Max goes still, swears under his breath, glares at the intruder, a young, lanky man with a dirty newsboy cap.

 

“What?” he snaps.

 

“Time to go,” the boy responds, seemingly unperturbed by Max’s annoyance.

 

“Whatever it is can wait”.

 

“I don’t think so. D sent me. Said it was urgent,” he raises his eyebrows, “Like _really_ urgent.”

 

Max swears again, runs his hand across his shaved head.

 

“Sorry, Mac,” he says, shooting MacCready a rueful smile, “I’ll see you later.”

 

And before MacCready can say anything Max is following the other man out of the room and up the stairs.

 

\- -

  


MacCready is almost asleep when Will slams their hotel room door open, drunkenly stumbling in and failing to close it quietly behind him. MacCready rolls his eyes in the dark. Hears Will fumbling with his belt, the soft sound of his pants dropping, followed by his shirt. His body is warm when he climbs in bed next to MacCready, not like Max’s.

 

“Sorry,” Will mumbles into MacCready’s shoulder.

 

He smells like sex and booze. MacCready pretends to be asleep, squeezing his eyes shut even though his back is turned to the other man. A warm arm loops around MacCready’s thin waist pulling him closer. Mac wants to scream. Instead he makes his breathing measured and even, until Will’s matches his own and he begins to make the odd little sounds he makes when asleep.

 

MacCready doesn’t fall asleep until the shadows have turned the color of a bruise with the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I promise things will get more interesting from here on out.


	4. I'll See You On the Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nice to see you again, Max”. MacCready tries to put as much venom behind the name as possible. The man’s expression doesn't change.
> 
> “I think you’ve got the wrong guy, buddy. I’m Deacon.”

“Goddamnit!”

“Language, MacCready!” Will yells as a bullet whizzes by his head. 

MacCready attempts to steady himself as a grenade explosion shakes the earth around him. His eyes water from the heat and he sprints towards the cover of an overturned bus, internally cursing Will. He was always picking up random holotapes and listening to them. Usually they were the last record of the poor bastard they were lying next to. But this one had been different. 

Wake up, Commonwealth. Synths are not your enemy. They are victims in this war, as well. True, they were created by the Institute. But they were created as slaves. Thinking, feeling, and dreaming beings utterly oppressed by their tyrannical masters. So join with us in fighting the real enemy: The Institute. Join the Railroad. When you're ready for that next step, don't worry, we'll find you.

The second MacCready heard that damned tape he knew what their next job was. He never failed to be horrified by Will’s naivety. At best it was some idiot sending them on a wild goose chase all over the Commonwealth. At worst they were about the follow this stupid red line right into a trap. If the supermutants they were currently trying not to be murdered by were anything to go by, the latter was most likely. Hell, Will had even found a torn letter on a corpse that warned the recipient Whatever you do, don't go into the commons. Of course, Will had completely disregarded it and now they were about to become supermutant h’ourdeurves. 

MacCready, staying crouched mostly behind the bus, surveyed the scene through his scope. Not as bad as he thought. Only three muties left as far as he can tell. He trains his crosshairs on the closest one and with a satisfying crack sees his face explode into viscera. He dispatches the other two quickly and makes his way back to where he last saw Will. When he finds him he is, per usual, rooting through corpses’ pockets. Doesn't bother MacCready, though, they won't be using that stuff anymore. 

They continue following the faded red line in silence, ears perked for any other signs of danger. When at last the paint ends at a surprisingly well preserved church, Will speaks. 

“This must be it”. 

MacCready grudgingly has to agree. A crudely drawn lantern is painted next to some plaque MacCready doesn't bother reading.

The inside is far worse than the outside. The floor is a pile of rubble and MacCready instantly spots a couple of ghouls staggering to their feet. He switches his sniper rifle out for the shotgun Will had given him, taking out three in quick succession, Will handling the others. Will flips his PipBoy light on, bathing the church in a sickening green glow. Still in silence they gingerly pick their way through the rubble. 

“There,” Will mutters, pointing to a literal hole in the wall, next to which another lantern is painted. 

They creep through the hole down into the catacombs. There is putrid water pooling around their feet but Will ignores it and MacCready knows better by now than to mention it. Will suddenly fires two quick shots, breaking the silence, and MacCready watches appreciatively as two ghouls fall face down in the water. They move forward, taking out more as they go. MacCready vaguely hopes Will was keeping track of the way they came in because he is definitely lost in the twisting tunnels. MaCready almost bumps into the other man when he abruptly comes to a stop, staring at something on the wall. MacCready follows his gaze to a large golden seal set into the wall. The Freedom Trail Boston is engraved in the worn metal. A red arrow has been painted pointing upwards. MacCready’s eyes find the wires connected to the seal. 

“Clever,” he remarks dryly.

“It is,” Will agrees appreciatively, missing the sarcasm as he begins spinning the wheel.

MacCready taps his foot impatiently, figuring if his boss can hack terminals in a minute flat he should make quick work of this. He isn't wrong. A minute or two later Will makes a noise of satisfaction and MacCready watches, impressed, as the brick wall begins to slide backwards, revealing a dark hole in the wall. Of course, Will wastes no time clambering through. MacCready groans, reloads his pistol and follows him. 

His eyes are just adjusting to the darkness when he’s absolutely blinded by light. He blinks manically, trying to force his eyes to focus on the three blurry figures in front of him.

“Stop right there.”

The two men obey, and as the people in front of them come into sharper relief, MacCready stares at the young man on the right. Doesn't he know him from somewhere. . . 

His musings are interrupted by the woman in the middle speaking, obviously the leader.

“You went through a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting. But before we go any further, answer my questions.”

MacCready’s eyes flick between another woman holding a minigun that is pointed at them and Will, who, as always, seems completely okay with the situation.

“Who the hell are you?” the woman demands.

“Why don’t you tell me who you are first?” Will asks pleasantly, and MacCready is almost positive he is the only person he’s ever met who has a chance of making that request work. He’s not disappointed. 

“In a world full of suspicion, treachery, and hunters we’re the synths only friends. We’re the Railroad. So answer my questions.”

MacCready can't help but roll his eyes at the dramatic answer. Everything about this organization seems theatrical, from the follow-the-yellow-brick-road to find them, the puzzle to get in, and the less than warm welcome. Still, he’d rather be here than aboard the Prydwen.

“I followed the Freedom Trail looking for the Railroad. I’m not your enemy,” Will answers, splaying his palms out in a sign of peace. MacCready grits his teeth. 

“If that’s true you have nothing to fear. Who told you how to contact us?”

MacCready misses Will’s response, distracted by a figure approaching their group from yet another hole in the wall. The man is dressed in a worn white t-shirt and a pair of rolled up jeans. His black hair is styled in a way that makes MacCready think of the Atom Cats. What makes MacCready’s breath catch in his throat however, is the man’s sunglasses. Black, tinted, browline shades that he has definitely seen before. He studies the man’s handsome, worn face, and in it he sees deep laugh lines around the mouth and those he remembers too. MacCready feels slightly dizzy, tries to speak, can’t.

“Deacon. Where’ve you been?” the woman demands of the man now standing to her left. 

“You’re having a party, what gives with my invitation?” the man replies, and oh yes, MacCready would never forget that voice. 

“You,” he spits, unable to help himself.

Their little “party” all turn to look at him. He can feel himself shaking, his face flushing in anger. The Railroad agent turns to look behind himself, turns back to MacCready, points at himself as if to say “me?” Okay, so that was how he was going to play it. 

“Nice to see you again, Max”. MacCready tries to put as much venom behind the name as possible. The man’s expression doesn't change.

“I think you’ve got the wrong guy, buddy. I’m Deacon.”

MacCready almost falters but when he catches the other members of their group shoot each other looks, the younger man rolling his eyes, he knows he’s right. 

“You know each other?” Will asks, looking bemused. 

“Seems like this assh-jerk has been following us for awhile. Diamond City,” MacCready begins ticking places off on his fingers, “Goodneighbor. Now here.”

“Don’t forget the Memory Den,” the man supplies cheerfully.

“Deacon is one of our top agents,” the woman says impatiently, “and you’ve made waves out there. I felt it was imperative to collect some intel on you before you inevitably showed up here.”

MacCready’s feels his face get redder. So that’s what that stint in the Third Rail had been about. Intel. He’s ashamed at his stupidity. He is so busy thinking of the best way to put a bullet between Deacon’s eyes without him and Will getting blown to bits by the others that he is missing the rest of Will’s conversation with the leader, Desdemona, as he briefly heard her say.

“We don’t have time to train up a new agent. There are, however, other valuable ways you can contribute. And in turn, we can help you. See Deacon for details. You’re free to go.”

MacCready watches incredulously as Desdemona and her two bodyguards turn and just leave them alone with that lying piece of shit, Deacon, who, of course, is grinning at them. MacCready thinks he can literally feel his blood boiling. 

“Hope you didn’t mind the reception. When you tango with the Institute, you gotta be careful when someone new gets on the dance floor.”

Will laughs easily at that and MacCready wants to shoot him too. 

“Kinda killed our chance at a friendly first impression though.”

MacCready scoffs. “I think you did that well enough yourself.”

Deacon just smiles wider. “Sorry about that, Mac.”

MacCready is so angry he’s actually afraid he might strangle this Deacon. He hates being played more than anything. It makes him feel weak, like a kid again. Like a kid trying to pretend he knows what he’s doing and knowing if he fucks up, it’s all their asses on the line. He thinks of Duncan. If he kills this guy, him and Will are dead for sure. Which means Duncan is dead. MacCready lights a cigarette. 

“I’m gonna get some air,” he mutters to Will, before turning and walking out the way they came. He doesn't bother trying to navigate his way back through the catacombs. Just leans against a wall, kicking a headless ghoul out of the way, to smoke. 

He tries to rationalize with himself. Will needs these people. He won't be the one to mess that up. Was what Deacon did that bad? Yes a small part of MacCready insists. But why? He himself has lied so many times. Hell, he had lied to Lucy. Told her he was a soldier. Was it because he had enjoyed the other man’s company so much? Because he was willing to let Deacon touch him in a way few had since his wife? No, it’s just because Deacon had fooled him and that was embarrassing. That’s what Mac told himself as he stubbed out his cigarette.


	5. Before the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready has the whiskey again, his blue eyes trained on Deacon as he drinks. Deacon tells himself that the weight in the air is from the radstorm outside.

Tom is chattering animatedly about some tech-y garbage and he should be paying attention but Deacon is definitely watching Will and MacCready, thankful as always for his sunglasses. The two men have their heads bent together, speaking too low for Deacon to make anything out. His job of gathering intel would be a hell of a lot easier if people would stop talking to him. But these people are the closest he has to friends and he can’t bring himself to blow off Tom, so he nods along until Tom stops for air.

“That’s awesome, Tom. Really just fantastic. I’ve gotta take a piss though”. 

Before Tom can answer Deacon is strolling over to their newest recruits. They go silent as he approaches and he tries to look trustworthy, all big smiles and relaxed posture. He doesn’t expect it to work on MacCready, he knows he’s blown his chance on the sniper ever trusting him, but his companion seems a little too trusting and if Deacon is good at anything it’s exploiting trust. 

“Heya, fellas. Don’t let me interrupt. Just wanted to see how you two are settling in here”.

MacCready glowers at him but Will smiles goodnaturedly.

“We’re alright. It’s cozy, I like it. Reminds me of my old barracks”.

Deacon decides not to ask what barracks were.

“Right. What about you, Mac? I know it’s not your usual five-star hotel but the beds are super comfy, right? If you’re nice Carrington’ll let you snuggle him”.

A passing Carrington ignores Deacon and MacCready does too. The mercenary stands and stretches. Deacon definitely doesn’t look at the strip of pale skin that shows between his pants and shirt. 

“Gonna go have a smoke, boss,” MacCready tells his partner, pointedly ignoring Deacon as he brushes past. 

“Don’t forget the secret knock when you come back,” Deacon calls after him. MacCready flips him off without turning around. 

“He’ll come around eventually.” 

Deacon drags his eyes from the other man’s retreating form, focusing on Will. He’s handsome. Rugged. Tall and brawny. His dark hair that is starting to get shaggy is almost the same color as his eyes, his skin is starting to lose its tan, not quite pale but not what it must have been before he was turned into a human popsicle. Faded white scars crisscross over his arms and a particularly large one peeks out from the neckline of his shirt. Deacon can understand why MacCready looks at him the way he does.

“He will,” the man insists, mistaking Deacon’s silence for skepticism, “What you did was kinda shitty but Mac’s a smart guy. He gets it.”

Deacon isn’t sure that MacCready does get it but he doesn’t offer any protests. 

“Anyways,” Will continues, “he’s just got cabin fever. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to go a whole twenty-four hours without being shot at but he really needs to get out and do something.”

“Well he’s in luck! Have I got a prize for him!” Deacon raises his voice theatrically, “A one-way ticket to paradise. And by paradise I mean some scrapyard. Same thing, right?”

“A scrapyard?” Will looks dubious.

“Tom needs someone to pick up some junk for his newest project. Although I’m not sure we should be encouraging him” Deacon muses, “Either way, I volunteered MacCready to go. Man eats more than my pet brahmin, time he earns his keep.”

Will laughs uproariously. “Good luck telling him that. The only thing that might persuade him to leave my side is a big pile of caps.”

Deacon smiles slyly. “I was hoping you could help me out.”

“Oh?” the other man raises an eyebrow, amused, “and why would I sell out my good friend like that?”

“Truth is, Dez wants to talk to you alone. And that’s kinda hard with your shadow . . . shadowing you. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, it’s just that . . . she doesn’t trust him.”

Will stiffens, face darkening. Deacon tries to backpedal.

“Look I trust him. He just hasn’t proven himself the way you have. Plus add his history with the Gunners -”

“I trust him,” Will growls, “with my life. That should be enough.”

“It should,” Deacon admits, “but it’s not, not for Dez. But if he happened to come back with everything Tom needs, she might change her tune”. 

Will considers him, “Okay, I’ll tell him to go. On one condition.”

“You got it, pal,” Deacon grins.

“You go with him.”

\- 

“Can’t believe Will’s making me do this.”

Deacon smiles brightly in response to MacCready’s seemingly permanent scowl. 

“But we’re having so much fun! Isn’t this fun? Do you want me to recite another sonnet for you? Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

“Do. You. Ever. Stop. Talking?” MacCready demands through gritted teeth as the two men trudge down the deserted street. 

“No, no, the next line is Thou art more lovely and more temperate! I thought you were a Shakespearean expert!”

MacCready stops and stares at him. “What? Why would you think that?”

Deacon shrugs. “You’re just so poetic with your words, I figured you learned it from the Bard himself.”

For a second Deacon seriously thinks the man might shoot him. 

“You’re a real piece of work,” he mutters instead, picking up his pace as if he can outwalk Deacon all the way to the junkyard. 

“If I had a cap every time I heard that.”

The sun might be setting but Deacon could swear he sees the corners of the sniper’s mouth twitch. 

\- 

By the time they reach the robotics disposal ground it’s pitch dark. This far out in the Commonwealth the only light comes from the stars and the small sliver of moon high over their heads. 

“Maybe we should camp out here, wait until morning,” MacCready suggests as they stare at the towers of junk blocking out the horizon, “It’ll definitely be easier to see our targets in, y’know, the daytime.”

“Radstorm’s comin’” Deacon answers shortly. 

He’s known it for awhile now. Felt the way the air turned heavy and charged a while back.

“Sh-crap.”

“We’re gonna have to head inside tonight unless we want to start glowing in the dark. As cool as that would be, I like having skin.”

MacCready nods, hefting his rifle higher and heading towards the door of the small building.

It’s cramped inside, bare except for a terminal and some other junk. No bed. There’s no way it’s big enough to start a fire, so Deacon settles for pulling out an oil lamp and a couple of candles out of his bag. MacCready is already unrolling his sleeping bag but stops to watch Deacon light the candles.

“Candles?”

“I thought it was romantic. I brought some rose petals too. That and there’s something inherently depressing about eating Cram in the dark.” 

The mercenary laughs at this, an actual real laugh. 

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve done that and thought the same thing.”

“What, the Gunners couldn’t spring for a couple of candles?”

Deacon wishes he hadn’t said it immediately. At the mention of his old group, MacCready’s smile fades, his face darkening. Deacon wishes he could tell him there’s no reason to be ashamed. That years spent with the Gunners couldn’t make him a worse man than the one sitting across from him. Instead he pulls a bottle of whiskey out of his bag and offers it to the other man. 

“What, you gonna booze me up and then make love to me by candlelight?” 

Deacon’s eyes widen behind his glasses before he realizes the other man is kidding. He’s not sure he’s ever heard him make a joke. 

“Well, we were so rudely interrupted by Drummer Boy last time,” he drawls, accepting the bottle and taking a swig before passing it back. 

MacCready takes another sip and Deacon tries to ignore the drop of whiskey clinging to his lower lip. Definitely doesn’t think about licking it away. Deacon doesn’t receive an answer, save for MacCready turning his back to him and beginning to peel off the multiple layers he was forever wearing. 

“You sleeping in that?” he inquires, looking over at Deacon. 

Deacon looks down at himself. White shirt, leather jacket, jeans, sneakers. He shrugs off the jacket. MacCready, who is now down to his long johns and t-shirt, snorts. 

“Do not tell me you wear those things while you sleep.”

Deacon touches the ridge of his glasses. “Sure do.”

“Man, do you ever loosen up?”

Deacon is taken aback by the question. “What do you mean? I’m super loose. I’m the loosest. I’m ultra-loose. I’m the loosest man you’ll ever meet but definitely not in that way.”

“Yeah, sure,” MacCready rolls his eyes, “You can’t even take a couple hours off of being a super secret spy to sleep without shoes and sunglasses.”

Deacon kicks off his shoes. “This is as far as I go, buddy.” 

MacCready has the whiskey again, his blue eyes trained on Deacon as he drinks. Deacon tells himself that the weight in the air is from the radstorm outside. 

 

\- 

He stares at the dark mass across from him, watches the steady rise and fall of the man’s breathing. His own eyelids are heavy, his mind fuzzy. He needs to sleep, especially if they’re walking back to HQ tomorrow with god knows how many pounds of junk on their backs. But he can’t really remember the last time he slept around someone that wasn’t Railroad. Certainly not the last time he slept next to someone who wasn’t Railroad in the middle of a mission, even if it was just to get Tom's junk. Still, Deacon doesn’t think MacCready will kill him in his sleep, not really. Anyways, by the noises the other man makes occasionally in his sleep, soft whimpers like a frightened animal, Deacon’s not sure MacCready would even wake up if he tried to kill him. He wonders what the seemingly fearless sniper is dreaming about. 

Eventually, Deacon pushes his sleeping bag off him, shoving his worn sneakers on and grabbing his jacket. Moving silently, he cracks the door open, making sure the radstorm has passed before slipping outside. He walks a couple feet away, sits on a boulder, places his pistol across his knees and lights a cigarette. He watches the smoke disappear into the slowly lightening sky. Breathes in the quiet. It’s something he doesn’t appreciate enough. A minute later that silence is broken by the soft scratch of the door behind him. He doesn’t turn around, waiting for the man to make his way to him. MacCready takes a seat next to him, rifle tucked under his arm. 

“Everything okay?”

“Fine. Just enjoying the view.”

MacCready looks out at the dark junkyard and back at Deacon. “Right.”

He lights his own cigarette and Deacon watches the flame cast his companion’s face in a warm glow. He realizes how young the man is. Living in this godforsaken place has aged him beyond his years but behind the dirt and worry he’s young and handsome. In the glow of his flame, without his coat, he looks small and frail. Deacon swallows hard, wrenching his eyes away. 

“What were you dreaming about?” he asks, not expecting an answer.

For a minute, when no answer comes, he thinks he’s right. 

“My wife. Lucy,” MacCready finally answers and Deacon wishes he hadn’t asked. 

He knows all about Lucy of course. How feral ghouls ripped her apart in front of her husband and child. He knows about the kid too, Duncan. How sick he is. Why his father isn’t with him. Where the cure is.

“I’m sorry,” Deacon says, not knowing what else to say. It sounds pathetic even to him.

MacCready rubs his eyes, drags on his smoke. “You ever married?”

Deacon flicks ash onto the ground, scuffs at it with the toe of his shoe. Married to my work. You didn’t know Magnolia and I got hitched? Got a Deathclaw wife waiting for me back home. 

“Yeah.”

MacCready doesn’t push it and Deacon feels enough to feel grateful. 

“I’ve got a son,” MacCready comments in a way that’s meant to sound offhand but Deacon can hear the barely restrained panic behind the words. He considers his answer, decides MacCready’s been straight with him, he deserves some honesty in return.

“I know. Duncan.”

MacCready shoots him a sharp look, then laughs.

“Of course you do.” He’s silent for a minute. “He’s sick.”

“I know.”

“The cure is in Med-Tek. I’ve tried to get it but it’s overrun with ferals.”

“You haven’t told Will.” It’s not a question.

MacCready sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “No. I . . . he’s done so much for me already. I can’t bring myself to ask him for this. It’s too much.”

“So what? You’re gonna let your kid die?” Deacon can’t make himself say his son’s name again. 

MacCready jerks as if he’s been shot. “No! I just . . . I’m waiting.”

“For what? I’ve seen you two. You’re thick as thieves. There’s nothing that guy wouldn’t do to help you.”

MacCready considers him, eyes searching Deacon’s face for lies, and Deacon feels ashamed that he can’t even trust him with something this genuine. Whatever the other man is looking for, he seems to find and Deacon wonders what it is.

“You’re right. I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

“You’re lucky,” Deacon says, rising to his feet and turning away, heading for the door, “to have someone in your corner like that.”


	6. When You Were All Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unbidden image pops into his mind of him pressing his lips to the other man’s neck, sucking the sensitive spot just below his pulse, nipping at the soft skin near his collarbone.

Noon finds the two men trudging along under the glare of the sun, packs loaded up with Tom’s requests. They’ve barely spoken all day but it’s almost a companionable silence. MacCready has only rolled his eyes at Deacon twice and hasn’t scowled at him once. Deacon’s been counting. He takes his eyes off the horizon to observe his companion. He’s impressed that the merc isn’t sweating bullets with all those clothes. Deacon admires the way he holds himself. Tall and straight. Deacon is prone to keeping is posture relaxed and loose, just a little slouch, even if in reality he’s anything but. It puts people at ease. MacCready, on the other hand, holds himself confidently, tightly-wound, and Deacon wonders if there’s a little bit of self consciousness behind that. His eyes travel down the younger man’s body; thinner than Deacon, who has put on a fair amount of muscle since joining the Railroad, but not scrawny. When MacCready lifts his gun, Deacon can see his jacket stretch taut over muscled arms. 

“How old are you?”

MacCready looks around, seemingly startled by the sudden noise. Narrows his eyes at Deacon distrustfully. 

“Why?”

“Just making small talk. Isn’t that what people do? Unless you want big talk. Like, what’s the meaning of life? Do you think those nutso Children of Atom have it right-”

“Twenty-two.”

Deacon whistles. “You’re a baby.”

MacCready shoots him his first scowl of the day. “Oh fu-piss off. How old are you then?”

Deacon smiles. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I don’t believe anything you say so you’re right there,” MacCready scoffs but he’s smiling. 

They stop to drink some water, finding a slight respite from the sun in the shadow of a large boulder. The sun is blinding and Deacon can’t imagine not having a pair of sunglasses. He stares at the sun until white spots appear in his vision. He watches MacCready drink his water, watches the way he tips his head back, bearing his pale throat. An unbidden image pops into his mind of him pressing his lips to the other man’s neck, sucking the sensitive spot just below his pulse, nipping at the soft skin near his collarbone. Deacon looks away.

\- 

Night has fallen again by the time they make it back to HQ. Deacon unceremoniously dumps what they’ve collected onto Tom’s desk, watching out of the corner of his eye as MacCready makes a beeline to his boss. Like a puppy, Deacon thinks. Or a moth to a flame. 

The room feels too hot, too crowded for Deacon. He wants out, only he just got back and Dez is heading his way, no doubt to demand intel on something or other. 

“I need you to go pick up the dead drop,” his boss tells him, all business.

“Not even a welcome home? Didn’t you miss me at all?”

She ignores him. “Drummer Boy is on an errand and won’t be back until tomorrow. We need this now, Deacon.” 

He salutes her. “Your wish is my strong recommendation.”

Damn, sometimes he loves Dez. Well, strongly likes her ideas occasionally. He’s so relieved to be able to leave HQ without questions he doesn’t even stare wistfully at the bed that was waiting for him. Shrugging his jacket back on, he passes MacCready and Nate huddled deep in conversation. He catches a snippet of their conversation.

“-sure it’s at Med-Tek-”

As if his wits have completely deserted him, he catches MacCready’s eye, giving him a small thumbs-up. MacCready smiles back before returning his focus to Will. What are you doing? Deacon mentally chides himself. Are you two fucking friends now? A thumbs-up, Deacon? Really? You want a friend? Let’s see how long you can go without fucking that up. Deacon’s inner voice is starting to sound like Carrington. I give you a week. You’d better nip this in the bud now, before you screw everything up again. 

It’s all Deacon can do not to trip the real Carrington as he walks by.


	7. You Made the Atom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, rumor has it that you were getting mighty friendly with that Railroad agent down at the Third Rail.”

MacCready, for what seems like the hundredth time, thanks anyone out there who’s listening for blessing him with such an awesome partner. Will had come through for him once before in a serious way when he helped the ex-Gunner take out Winlock and Barnes, but this? This was beyond that. He couldn’t even remember why he was so nervous asking Will to accompany him to Med-Tek. When he’d finally managed to stammer out his request, Will’s brown eyes had widened. 

“Of course I’ll help you, Mac! Why didn’t you ask me before, you idiot?” 

After Will had left to tell Desdemona that the two men would be leaving for a day or two, MacCready had looked around for Deacon, wanting to tell him the good news. After all, it was the Railroad spy who had convinced him to ask in the first place. 

“Any idea where Deacon is?” he asked Glory nervously, still slightly intimidated by the beautiful synth. 

She glanced up briefly from the plans she was pouring over. “Deacon? Gone, I think. Thank god.”

“Gone?”

She straightened up with a sigh. “Dez sent him to pick up the dead drop. He should be back tomorrow, god willing. Or not. Bastard doesn’t seem capable of dying though, so I’m sure he’ll turn back up telling us how he fought three Deathclaws single handedly or some bullshit.”

MacCready felt an unfamiliar rush of disappointment. “Oh.”

“What? You managed to go on an overnight trip with him and still want to see his lying face? Good for you, better man than most.”

MacCready shrugged. “He’s not so bad. Hey, do me a favor? Can you just tell him that Will and I went to Med-Tek when he gets back?”

“Got it,” Glory answered, returning to her papers.

“And could you also tell him I said . . . thanks?”

Glory looked up again, quirked an eyebrow. “You are so not going to be good for his ego.” 

\- 

MacCready stares down at the vial in his hand. It looks so small for how important it is. 

“We did it,” he breathes, “holy crap, we actually did it. We gave Duncan a fighting chance to live.”

He looks up at Will who was beaming at him. “Let’s get that to Daisy ASAP.”

MacCready tucks the vial very carefully in his chest pocket. For a moment his throat closes up. He can't believe he might be able to save Duncan. He can't believe that anyone would care enough about him to help him do something to important. 

“Thank you, Will,” he says, forcing words out through the constriction in his throat, “so much. You have no idea how much this means to me. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to settle this score.”

Will just shakes his head, claps him on the back. “You’re my friend, Mac. That’s what friends do.” 

MacCready’s mind flashes back to Deacon’s words. You’re as thick as thieves. There’s nothing that guy wouldn’t do to help you. He wonders if he imagined the bitterness in the spy’s voice, wonders if he has anyone who would do anything to help him. He hopes so.

\- 

They hole up in Med-Tek for the night and reach Goodneighbor by mid-afternoon the following day. He hands the cure over to Daisy, hoping against hope that he’s not too late. They decide to stay the night in town, sleep in an actual bed before starting the trek back to the Railroad’s HQ. MacCready leaves Will to barter with KL-E-O, decides to pay Hancock a visit. 

He finds the ghoul with his feet up on an ancient coffee table, eyes closed, high as a kite. He cracks an eye open when MacCready enters. 

“MacCready,” he greets him, “how’s my favorite mercenary?”

MacCready takes a seat next to him, takes a cigarette from the pack he’s offered. 

“Not bad, Mayor. Just sent out the cure for my kid.”

“That’s great!” Hancock exclaims, opening both eyes. MacCready wonders if he’s actually that enthusiastic or whatever chem cocktail he just ingested is kicking in.

“Hey, rumor has it that you were getting mighty friendly with that Railroad agent down at the Third Rail.”

MacCready stares at Hancock. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that the Mayor of Goodneighbor knows who Deacon is. He wonders if Deacon knows that his cover doesn’t work so well on the ghoul. 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know who he was then,” he mutters bitterly. 

Hancock snickers. “He’s not a bad guy. He’s actually one of the good ones. Used to be a good customer of mine for awhile.”

MacCready feels a hard weight settle in his stomach. “Customer?”

“A very good customer. If I recall correctly, which I do, he loved to smooch.”

MacCready inhales tobacco smoke the wrong way. Spluttering and coughing he chokes out, “What?”

Hancock laughs heartily. “Smooch. It’s a chem developed by some this guy Marty about thirty years ago. It’s all green and gooey. Tastes terrible. I tried it once and almost vomited. Don’t know how he managed to smoke it all the time.”

“What’s it do?” MacCready asks, feeling slightly sick himself.

“Seriously mellows you out, more like apathy actually. Mixed with some serious ecstasy. Can be a bitch to get off of. He must’ve done it though, since I was the only supply for miles and I haven’t seen him in months.” 

MacCready stands up abruptly, Hancock’s black eyes trained on him. 

“Oh c’mon, MacCready, don’t be like that.”

“Gotta go,” MacCready mumbles, turning for the stairs before Hancock can say anything else. 

Outside he breathes deeply. Heads to the Third Rail, grabs a beer. He doesn’t understand why he cares so much. He doesn’t even really like Deacon that much, finds him infuriating actually. An image of a strung out Deacon enters his mind, all shaking hands and blown pupils in eyes he can’t see because he can’t seem to imagine Deacon without his sunglasses. He wonders what could have happened to the man that he’d put his job on the line to chase some high. It makes MacCready unexpectedly sad. 

\- 

Will is already in their bed at the Rexford by the time MacCready staggers his way back to the hotel. 

“Ugh,” Will wrinkles his nose when his partner enters the room, “did you drink Charlie dry? You smell like a distillery.” 

MacCready flips him off, crawling into bed next to the other man. It’s impossible for them not to touch and MacCready is drunk enough that he doesn’t try to hold himself stiffly away, instead he presses his face into Will’s back. He feels Will’s body vibrate as he laughs quietly.

He’s almost asleep, halfway between the dark hotel room and hazy dreamworld when he thinks of Deacon again, imagines him blissed out in some dirty alleyway. 

He doesn’t fall asleep for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draaaama.
> 
> This little twist was inspired by Deacon's dialogue when you get addicted to chems where he says "There was a time I was on a first name basis with chems. It's better to kiss them goodbye, trust me."


	8. Was That Some Inside Joke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Welcome to the Railroad, MacCready.”

MacCready tries not to look around too obviously when they get back to HQ, tries to suppress the rush of disappointment when he doesn’t see the shock of black hair among the Railroaders. 

 

“Looking for me?”

 

MacCready turns, trying to will the color to stay out of his face. 

 

“You’re back,” he says lamely. 

 

“That’s it. I’m telling Dez I’ve found my replacement. You’re observation skills are clearly far superior than my own.” Deacon softens the jibe with a smile. 

 

“Ha ha.”

 

“So, you’re welcome.”

 

“Huh?” MacCready tries to discern something behind that placid smile and comes up empty.

 

“You got that cure for your son, right? Glory gave me your message.”

 

This time MacCready can’t help the flush that creeps up his neck. “Oh, right. Yeah, it should be reaching him any day now.” He can’t help grinning. He’s pretty sure Deacon’s responding smile is genuine. 

 

  * \- 



 

Will’s gone when he wakes up and he’s thankful to find no one has taken his partner’s place on the mattress neck to him. Although he wouldn’t mind sharing it with Glory maybe.  _ Or Deacon, _ a smaller part of his brain says. 

 

“Morning, sunshine.”

 

Speak of the devil. He blinks blearily at the spy. He’s sitting cross-legged on the mattress next to MacCready, spooning Sugar Bomb’s into his mouth. 

 

“How long have you been there?” he asks warily. 

 

Deacon grins wickedly. “Long enough. Heard you moaning my name in your sleep.  _ Deaconnn, yes just like that _ .” He pitches his voice up, sounding nothing like MacCready. 

For a second, MacCready gapes at him, horrified. There’s no way . . .

 

“Liar,” he growls, rising to his feet and searching for his coat. 

 

Deacon rises as well, and MacCready can’t help but admire the lithe, fluid movements of the man. Or the shifting muscles through his thin shirt. He’s a great shot himself but he sure as hell wouldn’t want to be up against Deacon.

 

“I do that.” 

 

“That’s all you do,” he mutters, casting his eyes around for Will. 

 

“He’s gone,” Deacon comments casually, “left you this though.”

 

MacCready takes the dirty scrap of paper that’s held out to him. 

  
  


_ Mac- _

 

_ I’m sorry I didn’t wait until you were awake but I had to go right away. I’ve followed a strong lead to the Glowing Sea. I couldn’t ask you to make that trip with me. Plus, I’ve only got one suit of power armor. Don’t worry about me. I’d appreciate it if you’d stick around until I get back and help the Railroad. We need them as allies. I promise to bring you back a souvenir, like a pet Radscorpion or a Deathclaw tooth necklace.  _

 

_ Be safe, _

_ Will _

 

He gently folds the piece of paper, tucking it in his breast pocket next to a small wooden soldier. Deacon is watching him closely, uncharacteristcly silent. 

 

“You read it, didn’t you?”

 

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

 

MacCready sighs. “So, yes. Well then you’ll know that Will wants me to stay and help you guys out. God knows you need a decent sniper.”

 

Deacon laughs at that and the sound sends a shiver down Mac’s spine. He extends his hand, a pre-War nicety before people were so stab-happy.

 

“Welcome to the Railroad, MacCready.”

 

MacCready’s mind spins through all the reasons this is a terrible idea. He looks at Deacon, sees the lips that look like they were made for lies, the perfectly controlled expression, the careful way he holds himself. Sees that it’s all an act, a carefully orchestrated performance. Behind the jokes and the sarcasm, the pleasant expression, is a very dangerous man.  

 

MacCready takes his hand. 

 

  * \- 



 

“So,” Deacon says, once MacCready has eaten breakfast and smoked a cigarette, “ready for your first mission as a Railroad agent?”

 

“I‘m not an agent. I’m helping you out until Will gets back.”

 

“Whatever you say, my temporary-agent friend. Either way, we’re heading to the Shamrock Taphouse to rescue a synth stranded there. I hope you packed your four-leaf clover hat. I’m dressing like a leprechaun myself. I have the suspenders and little hat and everything.”

  
  
  


MacCready has a  _ really _ hard time not admiring the way Deacon moves in a fight. He’s virtually silent, his face perfectly blank, his hands completely steady as he sends the raiders in the taphouse back to hell. MacCready still feels awkward with anything that isn’t his sniper rifle, always will he’s pretty sure, but Deacon acts like his pistol is an extension of his arm. He’s decisive with his movements, quick and efficient, but MacCready can tell he doesn’t enjoy killing. The second they’ve cleared the bar, Deacon pulls out a rag and wipes every last speck of blood off his hands, his face, his gun. 

 

“So where’s this synth?” MacCready asks, Deacon’s silence making him uncomfortable. The man is annoying but the heavy silence that has descended after the bloodshed is worse.

 

Deacon shrugs, seeming to come back to himself. “Let’s find out.”

 

They search the rest of the taphouse, taking out raiders as they go. They pause while Deacon works a safe behind the bar open. MacCready is mesmerized by his long fingers coaxing the open the lock. He makes an impressed sound when the lock opens with a satisfying click. Deacon shares the loot with him. 

 

They find the synth upstairs. Deacon stares at the bullet hole between its -  _ his _ \- lifeless eyes. He stares at it for a long while. MacCready shifts uncomfortably, watching the other man. He’s never seen him like this before. He half expects him to blow up like Will does sometimes after he’s been quiet for too long. But he knows that’s not Deacon. The other man’s face is still a blank mask, he’s giving nothing away. 

 

“Hey, man, I’m sorry,” MacCready says softly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, not used to trying to comfort someone, especially not someone like Deacon. 

 

Deacon turns, his mouth a little tighter at the corners but otherwise perfectly neutral. 

 

“It never gets easier.”

 

MacCready doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t quite get the whole synth-saving thing. It’s noble, he supposes, but so is helping humans. He stays quiet and hates himself for it.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” Deacon sighs, leading the way downstairs. 

 

MacCready casts a last look at the dead synth, tries to see it the way Deacon does. A failed mission? A casualty of the world they live in? Or just the mindless death of a living thing? He pauses and on a whim, turns back, gently closes the synth’s sightless eyes. When he turns around Deacon is watching him from the doorway, face unreadable as ever but MacCready notices his hands shaking just a little as he lights a cigarette. 

 

  * \- 



 

“How’d Deacon take it?”

 

MacCready looks up from the comic book he’s reading on a mattress in HQ. Glory is standing above him, looking down at him quizzically. 

 

“Er . . . take what?”

 

“Losing H2-11. The synth.” She takes a seat next to him. 

 

“No idea. He’s kinda hard to read in case you hadn’t noticed.”

 

She smiles at that. “That he is. There’s a lot I could say about Deacon. That he’s our best agent, hands down. Or that he lies about everything, even the really important stuff. But you’ve probably figured that stuff out. What I’d say instead is that Deacon has thrown his entire being into our cause. Saving synths comes before anything and everything for him. He considers losing one a personal failure.” She shakes her head. “Crazy bastard thinks he should be able to save every last one of them.”

 

MacCready glances over at Deacon who’s deep in conversation with Desdemona. “Bit obsessive, huh?”

 

Glory shrugs, standing up. “Everybody’s trying to make up for something. Some of us more than others.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, I found Deacon's newest disguise: my coffee cup
> 
> https://imgur.com/a/vnTd2


	9. Open the Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This,” Deacon runs a hand down his chest, “does not come from sleep, my dear MacCready. This level of perfection is only achieved through bi-weekly blood sacrifices.”

_ A warm breeze tugs at her curls, the sunlight lighting up the gold shot throughout her hair. She turns to him, smiling, laughing, taking his hand in her smaller one, leading him through their garden. He tugs her back, folding her body into his, kissing her head, her fingers, her lips. Hears her sigh against his neck, warm hands resting against his chest. He feels his heart swell, he’s happier than he’s ever been. Everything is perfect, just the two of them, the two of them against the world -  _

  
  
  


Deacon wakes, his eyes wet behind his sunglasses. The hollowness returns and with it the crushing realization that, shit, he’s still alive, still kicking. Still walking around and bullshitting and  _ fucking up _ while the best person he ever knew lies in the ground of the garden they grew together, her body probably still perfectly preserved. He lights a cigarette, the flame illuminating his comrades on their respective mattresses next to him. 

 

“Take that garbage outside,” Carrington mumbles, still managing to sound like a complete twat even when he’s half asleep. 

 

“Your pillow talk could use some work,” he whispers, stepping silently over the man nonetheless and making his way towards the catacombs. 

 

He almost turns back when he notices MacCready leaning against the stone wall, smoking his own cigarette. Company is the last thing he wants, but as far as people go MacCready doesn’t annoy him nearly as much as the rest. He doesn’t think MacCready would say the same about him, however. 

 

The man barely looks up as Deacon sprawls across from him. “Don’t you need your beauty sleep or something?” he asks, giving Deacon’s rumpled appearance a quick once-over.

 

“This,” Deacon runs a hand down his chest, “does not come from sleep, my dear MacCready. This level of perfection is only achieved through bi-weekly blood sacrifices.”

 

MacCready laughs. It’s one of the first genuine laughs he’s heard from the man. It’s a nice sound and Deacon finds he wants to hear it again. 

 

“No, really. I thought I’d team up with Pickman but his art was just not my style. Far too  _ art nouveau _ for my taste. I’m a renaissance man, myself.”

 

MacCready’s laugh chases away some of the fog from Deacon’s brain in the wake of his dream. It’s such a warm sound that for a second he wants to push himself up against the man, melt into his warmth, forget how much he wishes he was dead instead of Barbara. 

 

“Do you actually know what any of that means?” MacCready asks, shaking Deacon from his self-loathing haze. 

 

“Not a clue. But it sounded impressive, right?”

 

“Very.” MacCready smiles at him and a little more of the fog lifts. 

 

“If you need something to help you sleep, Carrington might be able to help you out,” Deacon offers, thinking wistfully of the stash of Calmex he knows the doctor keeps hidden away. 

 

“I’m fine, I don’t need that junk,” MacCready says sharply, giving Deacon a look he can’t quite read, “I’m just not used to sleeping around so many people out in the open. I was before but it’s been a long time. And it’s been a long time since I slept without . . .” he cuts off, looking frustrated, “without someone watching my back.”

 

Deacon is able to figure that one out.  _ Without Will _ . He’s still not sure what their relationship is exactly. He sees the way MacCready looks at the man but he’s so unused to human connections that it’s possible he’s misreading it. 

 

“I’m watching your back, you know,” he murmurs, unsure of what comes over him. He doesn’t understand this horrible compulsion of his to spill his guts to the mercenary. 

 

MacCready is silent, watching him, his blue eyes sharp in the dim light. His expression is strangely soft, however. 

 

“Yeah? Well, if anyone here is gonna do that, I’m glad its you.” 

 

For just a minute, Deacon feels as though he’s taken a hit of Jet. The moment hangs between them, impossibly long, and Deacon absurdly imagines striding over to MacCready, pushing him up against the wall, yanking his hair, squeezing his fingers into his sharp hips and sinking his teeth into his shoulder until the man groans his name. 

 

The moment passes and Deacon returns to himself, feeling that pervasive sense of dread that constantly hangs over him, deepen. 

 

“Promised Will I would,” he says cooly, trying to ignore the flash of hurt that crosses MacCready’s face. Trying to ignore the guilt he feels at hurting the man. He should be used to hurting people by now. It’s practically his job. Intel, spying, saving synths, fucking people over. 

 

  * \- 



 

Deacon spends the rest of the morning trying to avoid MacCready, which proves to be difficult when they are stuck in a room that often seems only slightly larger than his room at the Rexford. 

MacCready, for his part, doesn’t seem too interested in talking to Deacon, either. Deacon can’t get the image out of his head of him nipping at the merc’s neck until he whimpers and that cocky attitude of his replaced by him begging Deacon, grinding up against him, clawing at Deacon’s back - 

 

Deacon swears and punches a wall, feels his knuckles break. He swears again, goes to root around in Carrington’s stuff for a Stimpack. He doesn’t understand why his own brain is being such a traitor. Nor does he understand where this stupid attraction to the other man has come from. Since Barbara died, he hasn’t felt the slightest attraction to another person. Sex hasn’t entered his mind in years and he’s totally okay with that. Sex and relationships are messy distractions. They’re also for people who deserve having other people care about them. 

 

  * \- 



 

He’s trying to teach P.A.M. how to play twenty questions when Dez finds him, her face even more no nonsense than usual. 

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Deacon greets her, mentally preparing himself for whatever shit she’s about to throw at him. 

 

“Time you make yourself useful, Deacon.”

 

He looks at P.A.M. and back to Dez. “Are you seriously implying that teaching my good friend Pam here how to play my favorite game isn’t useful?”

 

Per usual, he’s ignored. “Who knows when that Vault Dweller will be back, we’ve spent enough time twiddling our thumbs-”   
  


“I, for one, have not spent  _ nearly _ enough time twiddling my thumbs. They’re severely under-twiddled-”

 

“So you’re going to go set up a new safe house,” Desdemona says. raising her voice to talk over him, and he finds their little routine comforting. 

 

“Aye aye, Captain,” he relents, saluting her. 

 

“Take someone with you. Not Glory, though.”

 

“I’ll take MacCready,” Deacon says because he likes to watch himself suffer. 


	10. And Then Conceal the Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe everyone will be too distracted by my impressive muscles to shoot us."

MacCready is surprised to say the least when Deacon asks if he’ll accompany him to Beacon Hill to set up a new safehouse. He’s tempted to laugh in his face. He had been finally warming up to the spy, thinking maybe he wasn’t an unfeeling machine, but now he feels stupid for thinking that. Deacon had made it quite clear that MacCready was simply an extension of Will, someone to win over if they wanted the grand prize. His distaste for Deacon, however, comes second to his desire to get the fuck out of the underground headquarters he’s been stuck in and stretch his legs, shoot something, take a piss outside. So he grudgingly agrees. 

  
  
  


They make the relatively short walk to the apartments that Deacon wants to scout out in silence. MacCready is surprised that the other man can go this long without talking. Inside the building, Deacon holds a finger to his lips. They stand still, listening to the distant murmur of voices above them. Quietly, they creep up the stairs, pistols drawn, and even through MacCready knows he’s pretty silent, he feels like a lumbering brahmin next to Deacon. The man is unparalleled in silence, his feet somehow making literally no sound as they make their ascent. 

 

MacCready recognizes the military fatigues the men upstairs are wearing immediately, and wastes no time in quietly switching his pistol out for his rifle, taking the Gunner’s head off before he even knows what’s hit him. Deacon gives him an appraising look, and MacCready can’t help feeling pleased that he’s impressed him. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, since the dead man’s friends are drawn by sound of their comrade having his head blown off. 

 

MacCready and Deacon move methodically, taking them out one by one until they’re surrounded by corpses and the hallway carpet looks more red than gray. MacCready relaxes his grip on his gun, leading the way to the next floor. He’s halfway up when a shot rings out and he whips around in time to see Deacon fall, a red stain blooming between his shoulder and arm, staining the white fabric fast, too fast. 

 

“Bastard got my arm,” Deacon groans. 

 

MacCready looks up to see a huge Gunner advancing on then, grinning cruelly. He looks down at his fallen partner, has just enough time to think  _ Huh, guess he’s human enough to bleed _ before a second shot rings out and Deacon shouts in pain, having rolled away just in time to avoid being shot through the stomach, more red blossoming from a hole in his calf.

 

MacCready’s brain switches off, and when he comes back he’s shaking like a leaf and the last Gunner is little more than a pile of bloody meat in front of him, body riddled with bullet holes. 

 

“Jesus christ,” Deacon hisses, half in pain half in awe, “You really like to make sure people are dead, don’t you?”

 

MacCready shakes himself, remembering the worrying amount of blood Deacon was losing. He turns back to the man and MacCready doesn’t think anyone should look that pale. He’s clutching the wound in his leg, but blood is still pumping steadily out of the hole. 

 

“Are the bullets still in?” he demands, dropping to his knees next to Deacon.

 

“Just the one in my shoulder,” he answers through gritted teeth. 

 

“Hold on,” MacCready says, abandoning his gun to root through his pack, desperately searching for the pile of stimpacks Will left him.

 

“I don’t mean to sound pushy, but anytime now,” Deacon says faintly, “I’m drifting . . . feeling a little . . . Is that a white light?”

 

MacCready lets a hysterical giggle escape, fingers finally wrapping around a stimpack. He hurries to the other man’s side, wastes no time in injecting half into Deacon’s leg, watching the skin knit back together and the bleeding stop. Deacon sighs in relief, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose, smearing blood all over his face. 

 

“Not over yet,” MacCready says grimly, “gotta get that bullet out before we can fix your shoulder. Can you walk?”

 

He helps the man to his feet before wrapping one of his arms around his waist, letting Deacon lean on him. They hobble their way to the first room they see and Deacon sinks gratefully into the bed. 

 

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. 

 

MacCready gives up on rooting blindly through his bag, dumps it out on the floor instead. He grabs the well-used pair of tweezers he uses to extract bullets from himself, a half-empty bottle of vodka, and the rest of the stimpack. Deacon watches him walk over silently, but makes a small noise of surprise when MacCready works his shirt off. He tosses the ruined shirt to the side, wincing at the gaping hole in Deacon’s shoulder. 

 

“I have a little Med-X if you want-”

 

“No,” Deacon cuts him off harshly, “Not a chance in hell.”

 

“It’s gonna sting a little then,” he warns the man, pouring a liberal amount of vodka over the wound. 

 

To his credit, Deacon doesn’t flinch but he does snatch the bottle away from MacCready when he’s done, downing the last of the alcohol. MacCready digs his lighter out of his pocket, sterilizing the tweezers. He looks to Deacon for permission and he nods. MacCready settles in next to him, clenching Deacon’s other shoulder in one hand and beginning the unfortunate job of digging the bullet out of the man’s flesh with the other. 

 

He works quickly, not unfamiliar with the process. Deacon stays silent but MacCready is fairly sure his eyes are closed. Finally, the bullet is dislodged and it falls to the floor and rolls quietly under the bed. The rest of the stimpack goes into Deacon’s shoulder, the skin mending itself until the only sign of the wound is some slight inflammation. MacCready realizes he’s still gripping Deacon’s good shoulder, probably hard enough to bruise. He also realizes that Deacon is shirtless and now is so not the time but he can’t help looking. The man is all flat muscle that ripples when he shifts. His eyes flick down. The smallest amount of curly pale red hair disappears into his jeans. MacCready swallows hard. 

 

“My eyes are up here. Not that you can see them,” Deacon comments dryly. 

 

MacCready’s eyes snap to his face, feeling heat rush into his cheeks. 

 

Deacon takes pity on him, changes the subject. “Well that got the blood pumping,” he says. “Thanks for, you know, not letting me bleed out in some shitty apartment building. I would have been really pissed if that’s where I made my final stand.”

 

“Don’t worry, I would've given you a proper burial and everything.”

 

The corners of Deacon’s mouth twitch. “You’re a bigger liar than me. You’d of wrapped me up in a carpet and shoved me under this bed.”

 

“Where I’m from, that is a proper burial.”

 

Deacon laughs at that and it’s not cruel or mocking or fake. MacCready decides he really likes the sound of it. Makes Deacon a little more human. 

 

“I, uh, think I have a spare shirt in my bag,” he offers, trying not to stare at Deacon’s broad shoulders or the white scars that are barely visible on his pale chest. 

 

“That would be much appreciated. Although, this might be a better defense. Maybe everyone will be too distracted by my impressive muscles to shoot us.” Deacon flexes dramatically and MacCready scoffs, even though he thinks Deacon might not be wrong. 

 

He finds an old but clean black shirt in the pile of stuff he’d dumped out and hands it to Deacon, unable to stop himself watching as the man pulls it on, and he hates how stupidly hot Deacon putting a shirt on is. If he notices MacCready watching, he doesn’t say anything. 

 

“Let’s go make sure we’re really alone,” Deacon says, getting to his feet and reloading his gun.

 

MacCready likes the sound of that. 

 

  * \- 



 

They spend all day clearing out the new safehouse. They drag the dead Gunners outside, all except the one that shot Deacon. They stand over him, looking down at what remains of his body. It’s mostly a pile of gore, too messy to easily drag outside. MacCready remembers the man advancing on him, shooting Deacon, trying to hurt him before he kills him. Remembers Deacon, always so unshakable, yelling in pain. A far off ringing starts in his ears, it’s a sound he’s familiar with, he heard it before he shot the dead man laying in front of him. He’s spent a lot of time trying to reign his anger in, promised Lucy he would, but sometimes it gets the best of him. 

 

From far away he hears Deacon calling his name. “MacCready, hello? Earth to MacCready.”

 

He doesn’t move his eyes from the dead Gunner. Tries to make sense of the words through the white haze in his brain. 

 

“Not that I’m too fond of the guy, but why the hell did you have to liquify him? It’s gonna be a huge pain in the ass to drag him out there,” Deacon nudges the bloody mess with his boot toe, wrinkles his nose, “Gross, I think he’s leaking through the floor.”

 

“He hurt you.” MacCready doesn’t remember hearing the words leave his lips, he’s too busy trying to will away the all-consuming hatred that has momentarily taken over, but he knows they’re true. 

 

Deacon is silent, staring at MacCready. “You did this because he  _ hurt me _ ?” he finally asks, looking incredulously between MacCready and the mutilated corpse.

 

MacCready rubs his eyes, the ringing in his ears fading, doesn’t answer. He leaves Deacon with the body, returns with a blanket from one of the rooms. Silently, the two men roll the body into the blanket and carry it outside. 

 

“Is this the kind of burial you were thinking of for me?” Deacon quips as they dump the body in the alley with the others.

 

MacCready gives him a sharp look. The other man is smiling easily but MacCready can see the stiffness in his shoulders and knows without being able to see that his eyes are not smiling. He can feel the man trying to pick him apart, understand what is happening. 

 

“No, Deacon. Not at all.”

 

\- -

 

After MacCready smokes a cigarette, his mood improves substantially and they continue clearing out the building, dragging broken terminals, empty bed frames, filing cabinets, all sorts of rubble behind the building. MacCready is quickly sweating bullets and as naked as he feels, he strips off his coat and jacket underneath, folds them neatly in the bedroom they’re using as homebase, tosses his hat on top. He notices Deacon giving him a once-over when he returns.

 

“What?” he snaps, not in the mood for some joke about how small he is out of his coat.

 

“Nothing,” Deacon whines, holding his hands up, “Was just going to say that you look nice out of all those layers.”

 

MacCready blinks stupidly. “Oh. Well . . . thanks.”

 

He’s glad that Deacon begins rambling on about Proust versus Flaubert, even if he has no idea who those people are or what Deacon is talking about. It gives him time to think while he nods and throws some “hmms” in every now and again. His anger at Deacon’s stunt at the Third Rail has faded, replaced by something that might be worse. He’s not sure what to call it.  _ Fondness?  _ He enjoys Deacon’s company. He’s witty and clever and smart, and MacCready finds himself having a good time working with him. But he’s also a compulsive liar and more closed off than a vault. MacCready also knows that, above all, he’s impenetrable. That man would die before he let anyone see the eyes behind the shades.


	11. Let's Load the Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're my problem, MacCready."

By evening, they’ve made a pretty decent dent in the junk that litters the soon-to-be-safehouse. The first two floors are almost entirely clear if not incredibly dusty. They’ve spruced up the bedrooms, too. They take turns holding the mattresses up outside while the other beats the centuries of dust and ash and god knows what out of them. 

 

“I’ll grab some of those synth care packages from Carrington later, we can leave one in each room,” Deacon tell MacCready, who laughs uproariously. 

 

“What is this, a fuc-freaking hotel? Gonna start leaving mints on the pillows?”

 

Deacon looks at him quizzically. “What’s a mint?” 

 

“Some pre-War candy. Vadim told me about them once. Nice hotels used to leave them on pillows for the guests, I guess.”

 

Deacon shakes his head. “Our pre-war ancestors sound like goddamn weirdos.”

 

MacCready hums in agreement, distracted by the tightening of Deacon’s biceps as they lug the last mattress back to its bedroom. 

 

“Okay, I declare that we are officially done for the day,” Deacon says, wiping his hands off and falling on the now-clean(ish) bed dramatically, folding his arms behind his head with a sigh.

 

MacCready hovers in the doorway, unsure of what to do. He glances over at the spy, feeling words die in his throat. Deacon’s shirt -  _ his shirt _ \- has ridden up far enough that a strip of pale skin is visible between the black fabric and his pants. MacCready follows the sharp line of his hips to where it disappears into his jeans along with the soft curls of auburn hair. He’s so hot it’s almost indecent. He knows his face is undoubtedly red and he looks guiltily back up, hoping Deacon hasn’t noticed his moment of indiscretion, but Deacon is watching him, face unreadable as always. For a moment, the two look at each other in silence. MacCready flashes to that night at the Third Rail, Deacon’s hands on his hip, his hardness pressing into Mac’s thigh. Horrified, he feels his cock twitch in his pants. He would rather die than pop a boner in front of Deacon when it’s so obvious he’s the catalyst behind it. 

 

“I’m gonna go, uh, start dinner,” he mutters, backing towards the door, Deacon still watching him from behind those stupid sunglasses. He gives an almost imperceptible nod and MacCready closes the door behind him, takes the stairs two at a time.  

 

  * \- 



 

Shortly after fleeing the upstairs bedroom, MacCready realizes the only thing they have to eat is Cram. It’s all the Railroaders seem to have to eat, more concerned with freeing synths than eating something that’s not preserved meat in a can. The idea of eating more of that processed garbage almost turns his stomach. He’s also not eager to return to the apartment building, so he shoulders his gun and wanders into the nearby field, hoping to snag a radstag or a couple of radrabbits. He knows he’s not nearly as quiet as Deacon but he’s had practice hunting his food. He remembers the horrible period of time between Lucy’s death and his arrival in the Commonwealth, half delirious with grief, maybe five caps to his name, trying to make it across the Wasteland. He’d followed a radstag for nearly half a day before getting close enough to shoot it. It had almost gored him, but in the end he’d gotten the best of the pathetic creature. 

 

He walks for a long awhile, long enough that he loses sight of the apartment buildings. He tries to put Deacon out of his head, focus on following a set hoofprints in the mud, the edges not quite crusted over yet, still fresh. Finally, he spots the beast stopping to drink from an irradiated stream, the setting sun reflect brilliantly in the water. He crouches down, careful to avoid stepping on any twigs as he draws his gun, takes aim, and shoots. The bullet hits the stag in the center of one pair of eyes, a perfect killshot for any other living thing. The radstag however, roars in pain, begins blundering down the stream. He takes aim again and the second bullet drops the animal. MacCready carefully makes his way down to the carcass. Once he’s sure it’s really dead, he makes short work of carving it up. 

 

  * \- 



 

“What is that  _ smell? _ ”

 

MacCready glances up at the shadowy figure. “Radstag stew.”

 

“Christ, MacCready,” Deacon says, stepping into the firelight, “you are a man after my own heart. I thought I would have to commit ritual suicide if I ate another can of Cram.” 

 

MacCready focuses on stirring the bubbling stew. “Make yourself useful and find us something to eat out of.”

 

“Yes _ sir _ ,” Deacon murmurs, his voice husky, and _ fuck me _ , MacCready thinks, why does he have to say it like that?

 

He disappears for a short while, returning with two chipped bowls, some bent spoons, and a bottle of Bobrov’s Best. MacCready takes the bowls and spoons with a grunt of thanks and fills them to the brim, passing one back. They pull two rusty chairs closer to the fire and eat in companionable silence, passing the bottle back and forth until it’s half empty.

 

“Goddamn, Mac,” Deacon says around a mouthful of stew, “screw Will, come work for  _ me _ . I’ll pay you double and all you have to do is cook for me everyday.”

 

MacCready bristles, offended both at the implication that he would desert Will for more caps, as well as the idea of him getting paid to cook for Deacon. 

 

“Not in a million years,” he says stiffly. “And anyways, Will doesn’t pay me. Not anymore.”

 

He sees Deacon’s eyebrows raise behind the sunglasses. “Well isn’t that interesting.”

 

“Not really.”

 

He catches Deacon watching him, the flickering of the flames reflected in the black glass. His head feels light and heavy at the same time, the flames incredibly bright. 

 

“What?” he demands, knowing he sounds like a whining child. Deacon smiles but not enough to make the handsome laugh lines around his mouth and eyes crease. Not a real smile.

 

“You’re quite attached to him.” It’s not a question.

 

“Yeah, so? Not everyone gets off by isolating themselves.”

 

Deacon laughs, humorlessly. “You’re right about that.” He’s silent for a moment, the air suddenly thick as if a radstorm was approaching. “You love him.” It’s also not a question.

 

MacCready stares at him, mouth agape. Tries to collect himself through his drunken haze, snaps his mouth shut, sits up straight.

 

“What,” he hisses, “are you fu-freaking talking about?”

 

Deacon shrugs. “Will. You love him. Are in love with him, maybe.”

 

“And what,” MacCready asks icily, “makes you think that?”

 

Deacon laughs at that and still there’s no real amusement behind it. “Please, MacCready, even you aren’t that dense.”

 

MacCready tries to ignore the insult. “Please, Deacon, enlighten me.” 

 

“Where to start? The way you look at him? Your  _ concern _ for him? The fact that before you met him, you would massacre whole towns without a second thought if the price was right, but you follow him around for free?” His words are impressively controlled for someone who drank a quarter of a bottle of Bobrov’s Best.

 

MacCready stares at him, body tight with anger. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Don’t I? I’ve heard I’m pretty good at reading people.”

 

It’s MacCready’s turn to laugh. “Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are. No surprise there.”

 

“Well then, MacCready,  _ enlighten me _ ,” Deacon throws his words back at him.

 

MacCready slams his bowl down. “Fine. Not that it’s any of your business. Yes, Deacon, I love him. Of course I do, how the hell could I not? He saved me. From myself. He helped me get out from under Winlock and Barnes’ thumb. He helped me cure my son. All without asking for anything except that I watch his back. He’s kind and he’s loyal, something you could stand to work on. He’s the only person in this shithole world who cares what happens to me.” He’s breathing hard, aware vaguely that he’s so worked up that he’s swearing. “But I am  _ not _ in love with him. I’ve worked very hard not to be. So don’t assume, for one second, that you know me that way.”

 

Deacon is silent for a moment. Then says simply, “I’m sorry, MacCready.” It sounds genuine enough.

 

MacCready looks at his feet, embarrassed by his outburst, confused by the whole interaction. The alcohol is making his head spin a little, too. “It’s . . .whatever, it’s fine.”

 

“No,” Deacon says, “it’s not. I’m a grade-A asshole. I’m really good at it. I once won a medal for it, believe it or not. Not many people call me out on it, though. I appreciate it. And for what it’s worth, which probably isn’t much, I am sorry.” 

 

MacCready doesn’t look up. “I don’t get you, Deacon. I know that’s the point but,” shakes his head, “we had a good thing going, I thought.”

 

Without waiting for an answer, he turns his back on the man and walks inside.

 

Some time later he hears the creak of the door opening downstairs. He knows better than to try and listen for Deacon’s footsteps. Sure enough, the door opens a moment later, Deacon appearing as if out of nowhere. MacCready glances up at him over the comic he’s pretending to be reading, still too tipsy to actually do so, sprawled across the bed. Deacon is just standing there, watching him. MacCready rolls his eyes, goes back to looking at the pictures, when the comic is ripped away and thrown across the room.

 

“What the hell?” he demands, springing to his feet, “What’s your problem?”

 

“You,” Deacon growls, advancing towards him, looking suddenly very dangerous, “ _ you’re _ my problem, MacCready.”

 

Before MacCready can ask him what the hell that means, the other man has shoved him up against the wall, hard enough that his head meets it with a crack. He scrabbles for his gun, but Deacon’s deft fingers have already lifted it, it lays across the bed, just out of reach. He feels Deacon relieving him of his knives and the holdout pistol tucked in his waistband. He doesn’t know why he’s not resisting more. Deacon’s proximity has rendered him momentarily paralyzed. The smell of the man is intoxicating, a mixture of gunpowder and woodsmoke and something else, something undeniably just Deacon. Before he realizes what’s happening, Deacon is gripping his wrists, pinning them against the wall above his head with one hand.

 

“Deacon, what-” 

 

He’s cut off by Deacon grabbing his hip roughly with his free hand and yanking him so Mac’s hips are flush against his own and  _ oh _ . He leans in, warm breath, smelling like moonshine, raising the hairs on the back of MacCready’s neck. 

 

“MacCready, I am going to fucking take you apart.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shiiiit. We're about to get to the juicy stuff! Thank you to everyone who has commented or given kudos or just read this, it means a lot!


	12. And See How Long They Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not going anywhere,” Deacon says softly, dangerously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been so patient, so here it is! I haven't written smut in ages so I apologize for this in advance. Fair warning, though, if rough sex, like really rough, isn't your thing, you might wanna skip this chapter. Enjoy ;)

MacCready’s breath catches in his throat. That was . . . not what he expected. 

 

“W-what?” he stammers.

 

“You heard me,” Deacon murmurs, grip tightening on MacCready’s wrists, “I am going Take. You. Apart.” He punctuates each word by rolling his hips into MacCready’s. 

 

MacCready’s head spins trying to catch up. Despite his confusion, his body is responding to Deacon. He feels his pants tightening as his cock stiffens. Deacon dips his head, nips at MacCready’s neck and he gasps, hips bucking slightly into Deacon’s, who hums low in his throat. 

 

Deacon lets his wrists go before grabbing the other man roughly, pulling MacCready to him fully and yanking his shirt over his head. MacCready feels too exposed, shrinks into himself, trying to back up, but Deacon holds him too tightly. 

 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Deacon says softly, dangerously. MacCready’s mouth goes dry, desire making his stomach lurch. 

 

He lets Deacon shove him onto the bed, backs up until he hits the wall. Deacon watches him the way a hunter watches their prey. He advances slowly, pulling his shirt off as he does and  _ fuck _ . MacCready’s eyes trace over the lean muscled chest, criss-crossed with old scars. He can’t remember the last time he saw something he wanted so much. He’s slightly frightened, but his arousal overrides the desire to run. 

 

Deacon crawls up MacCready, shaded eyes never leaving the merc’s face. MacCready tentatively reaches his arms out, grabbing Deacon’s shoulders, feeling the shiver that runs through the man and  _ shit he’s so hot.  _ He drags his fingers down the his chest, feeling his stomach muscles tighten when he skims his fingers over them. Deacon growls low in his throat.

 

“Take that shit off,” he commands, motioning to MacCready’s ammo belts and pouches wrapped around his waist and thighs, one knee planted firmly between Mac’s legs.

 

MacCready does as he’s told, working swiftly, eyes never leaving Deacon’s. The second the last belt falls to the floor, Deacon’s capable fingers are working his pants open, pulling them down hard enough to sting. MacCready feels Deacon’s eyes traveling over him, feels stupidly self-conscious, like a kid again. Deacon groans softly.

 

“Fuck, MacCready.”

 

Hearing Deacon say his name like that has MacCready’s cock stiffening ever more. Deacon’s large hand palms him through his underwear and he gasps, hips jerking up, eyes closing briefly. He opens his eyes when Deacon takes his hand away. He’s smirking at MacCready and he feels the usual annoyance Deacon elicits from him surface. He wants to hear Deacon gasping and moaning, wants to take him down a peg. He reaches for Deacon’s pants, half expecting his hands to be smacked away but he’s allowed to unbutton his jeans. Deacon shimmies out of them, tossing them on top of MacCready’s. Mac takes his time running his hands over his body, can feel Deacon growing even harder against him. He angles his body so their cocks are lined up before rolling his hips into Deacon’s.

 

Deacon  _ moans _ and fuck if it isn’t the single hottest thing MacCready’s ever heard. His cock twitches and Deacon moans again at the sensation, biting MacCready’s neck to stifle the sound. MacCready is aching now, lust pooling in his stomach. He pulls at Deacon’s underwear, yanking them down his hips. The man’s cock springs free, longer and thicker than MacCready imagined and he whimpers at the sight, rutting into Deacon. He pulls at his own underwear, discarding them, and letting their cocks rub together. The slight friction has his breathing speeding up and he thinks he could come from this alone, but he also wants more, wants all of Deacon. 

 

He squirms out from under the man, pushing Deacon gently on his back, letting him tangle rough hands in his hair. Keeping his eyes trained on Deacon’s through the damned sunglasses, he lowers his head, licks up Deacon’s shaft and is rewarded with another groan. He dips down further, taking the head of his cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the slit. Deacon’s hands tighten in his hair and MacCready opens his throat in response, taking Deacon deeper until he hits the back of his throat. Deacon is breathing heavily, head tipped back. MacCready takes his time coming back up, swirling around the top before sucking down again until his nose is nestled in Deacon’s light red hair. He doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants so he grabs Deacon’s hips, pulling them forward until he almost chokes. Deacon, to his credit, seems to understand and begins thrusting of his own accord. MacCready lets him fuck his face, feeling his own cock dripping pre-cum as Deacon groans louder and louder. 

 

Deacon pulls him up far too soon and his face is flushed, he’s more out of control than MacCready has ever seen him. 

 

“I’d return the favor but I’ve never . . .” Deacon gestures to MacCready’s aching dick. 

 

“Thought you were going to ‘take me apart’,” he smirks.

 

Deacon grins, all white teeth like a lion before it rips the gazelle’s throat out. 

 

“Oh I am, baby. I am.”

 

He moves swiftly, suddenly up and behind MacCready, wrapping an arm around him and pulling the smaller man into his chest. With no warning, Deacon’s long fingers are pushing past MacCready’s lips and he takes his time working them around in his mouth, knowing it’s important that he do so. He sucks at them obscenely, tasting salt and the bitter tang of gunpowder.

 

“Jesus, Mac, you’re fucking  _ filthy _ ,” Deacon hisses, pulling his fingers reluctantly away with a pop, MacCready’s saliva coating them.

 

There’s a soft brush of lips at the base of his neck before Deacon is pushing him face first into the mattress so his dick is pressed into his stomach, the other man’s hand keeping his head pressed against the mattress. He feels incredibly exposed, gasps when Deacon roughly yanks his hips pack towards him, his cock sliding over MacCready’s ass, still wet from Mac’s mouth. Then his brain short-circuits with pleasure as Deacon presses a slick finger to his hole. He pushes against the finger unconsciously, feeling it slip into him and he hears Deacon groan, sliding it in deeper. He pulls the digit out, begins fucking MacCready with it, too hard but curling it at just the right spot, until he’s sweating and clawing at the fabric, moans muffled by the fact that Deacon still has his head shoved into the mattress.

 

“You want more, Mac?” Deacon asks, low and still sounding so dangerous.

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” MacCready cries in frustration and whimpers as Deacon adds another finger.

 

Deacon works him open quickly, too roughly, but MacCready is lost in pleasure, mewling and panting against the bed. He starts to turn when the fingers are removed but then Deacon pushes into him and he’s gone, mind wiped blank, not aware of practically screaming the agent’s name along with a plethora of curses. Deacon pulls out, thrusts into him again and MacCready thinks he might cry. He pushes back, trying to take him deeper. Deacon's hands tangle in his hair, pushing his face back into the mattress before he begins to fuck him, hard. Every snap of his hips adds to the heat pooling in Mac’s groin, his cock feeling like it might explode at any minute. Deacon’s fingers are yanking his hair hard, making his eyes water and it only makes Mac moan harder. 

 

“Touch yourself.”

 

Suddenly, Deacon’s cock is gone, leaving him achingly empty, before he’s flipped on his back. MacCready doesn’t need to be told twice. Takes his leaking cock in his hand, strokes himself up. Hisses and arches his back at how good it feels. Deacon is watching him, mouth hanging open slightly, working his own cock slowly. 

 

“Deacon,” MacCready whispers, desperate to have the man back inside him, “please.”

 

Deacon’s mouth snaps shut. His fingers wrap around MacCready’s throat, and through his haze of arousal, Mac is definitely concerned that he has no problem with the position he’s found himself in. Not only does he not have a problem with it, the feeling of Deacon’s fingers pressing into the soft skin of his throat almost finishes him. 

 

“Please, what?”

 

“Please,” MacCready chokes out, “please fuck me.”

 

Deacon drops his head, panting.

 

“Oh fuck, MacCready,” he practically whines, lining himself up and pushing back in. 

He fucks him harder this time, and before he knows it, MacCready is moments away from blowing his load all over his stomach.

 

“Deacon, I’m gonna-”

 

He’s cut off by fingers closing tighter around his throat, black spots dancing in his vision, his head feels too light. He can’t believe how good it feels. Deacon groans, fingers still firmly around Mac’s throat, brushes a gentle thumb across MacCready’s lips. It's the intimacy of the act that tips him over the edge. He comes, crying Deacon’s name involuntarily, shaking and whimpering.

 

“Oh goddamnit, Mac,” Deacon groans, continuing to fuck him relentlessly until MacCready looks up at him and they’re close enough he can just see Deacon’s eyes through the browliners. They hold each other’s gaze until MacCready gasps around his chokehold,

 

“Deacon.”

 

Deacon’s eyes close, the word on MacCready’s lips too much. He shakes, spilling into the other man. Collapses onto MacCready’s chest, loosening his grip on his throat. The two lay together, panting heavily. Too soon, in MacCready’s opinion, Deacon rolls off him, searches for his pack, pulls out a faded rag and cleans them off in silence. MacCready is utterly spent, too exhausted to deal with Deacon’s mood changes. And a small part of him hopes Deacon will abandon his whole act, just act the way normal people do after fucking. He knows it’s too much to expect though. To his surprise, however, Deacon crawls back into bed with him.

 

“Move over,” he mumbles, prodding MacCready who obliges, not believing what is happening.

 

Deacon wraps himself around MacCready, pulling his warm body into his cooler one, rubbing a circle into the back of his neck and pulling the threadbare blanket over them. MacCready fights his heavy eyelids, wanting to soak in the feeling of Deacon’s arm wrapped around his hips, breath steady and warm on his neck, stubble scratching his shoulder. He loses the fight, though, and the last thing he remembers before sleep pulls him under is Deacon brushing his lips against the back of his neck. 


	13. Let's Go Ring and Run the Bunkers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready is trying to hold it back but he’s angry. He isn’t sure what he expected to happen but it isn’t this.

MacCready is alone in the bed when he wakes up, golden sunlight pouring through the window. He’s not surprised but that doesn’t stop the pang of disappointment that runs through him. He throws the blanket back, getting to his feet and wincing. It was not going to be a pleasant walk back to the Railroad’s HQ. 

He doesn’t find Deacon anywhere in the building and for one horrible second he thinks the man left him here. He finds him outside, though, smoking a cigarette, back to MacCready. 

“Hey,” MacCready says, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

This morning after thing is weird. He hasn’t fucked many people since Lucy died but anyone he had slept with was either gone in the morning or he was. He isn’t sure what to expect.

“Hey yourself,” Deacon says mildly, turning around but he goes still when he sees MacCready. 

“Oh shit,” he breathes, cigarette forgotten. 

“What?” MacCready asks, raising a hand to smooth his hair self-consciously. 

“Your neck.”

MacCready tries to see his own neck. Fails. Deacon silently hands him a small compact, the kind that used to hold makeup. The mirror inside is cracked but he can still see the angry red bruises on his neck, already starting to fade to purple, in the shape of Deacon’s fingers. 

“Shi-shoot,” he mumbles, touching them and wincing. 

He knows he should be mad, but there’s something about all of it that he finds deeply arousing. He remembers Deacon pounding into him, leaving those bruises. He likes the feeling of being marked by Deacon. He does not, however, like that he likes it.

“ ‘s fine,” he says, repositioning his scarf so it hides most of the bruising. 

Deacon is still staring at him and it’s really starting to freak MacCready out.

“Deacon, it’s fine,” he says impatiently, “I’ve been shot more times than I can count, a little bruising is nothing.”

Deacon shakes his head. “Fuck, Mac, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he snaps, annoyed that Deacon is acting like he’s something fragile, something that can’t be touched roughly. 

He heads inside to go collect his things, Deacon still staring at him.

 

The walk back to HQ is blessedly short. MacCready is still trying to make sense of the previous night’s . . . activities. He finds himself zoning out more than once, remembering Deacon nipping at his neck, moaning, watching him come all over himself. Deacon on the other hand seems perfectly fine with pretending nothing happened. He’s happily jabbering away about why polka music is superior to jazz, gesticulating wildly. Between the two of them it’s amazing they make it back to HQ in one piece. 

Deacon puts an arm on MacCready’s stopping him before they go in. He opens his mouth, seems to change his mind. Instead, he gently fixes MacCready’s scarf so the bruises are covered again, his gaze lingering a moment too long on the other man’s neck, his fingers brushing softly over the discoloration.

MacCready can’t help but close his eyes for the briefest of seconds and when he opens them again, he’s alone in the catacombs, save for the headless ghoul. 

\- 

He can’t be sure but it feels like Deacon spends the rest of the day avoiding him. He’s not once seen him ask Carrington if he needs help with anything and, by the look on Carrington’s face, neither has he. 

MacCready is trying to hold it back but he’s angry. He isn’t sure what he expected to happen but it isn’t this. He didn’t expect Deacon to make him breakfast in the morning or hold his hand on the way back to HQ, but he also didn’t expect the man to act like nothing had happened between them. Then again, he also can’t picture Deacon and him talking about it either. He’s starting to get a headache, decides a smoke is in order.

Glory ambles out while he’s smoking, gives him a once-over, her face hardens. He tugs at his scarf self-consciously.

“Don’t bother.”

MacCready really doesn’t know what to say to that.

“So, either you insulted Deacon’s hair and he tried to strangle you or . . .” She doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to, lets the implication hang in the air. 

MacCready averts his eyes from her brown ones. “I don’t know-”

“You’ve spent all this time with him and still can’t lie properly?” She cuts him off. Sighs, gives him a look he can’t quite read. “You’re a good kid, MacCready. Be careful around him. Friendship isn’t in his vocabulary.” 

Back inside, he lets himself get roped into playing dice with Drummer Boy and some other agents. He’s glad there’s not much skill involved because he spends more time watching Deacon across the room than the dice. Deacon is adding “Beacon Hill Apartments” to the list of safehouses on their chalkboard. As if he can sense MacCready’s gaze, he looks up, walks over.

“Well, well, what’ve we got here?” he asks, “You guys actually playing for caps this time or just Fancy Lads’?”

“Caps,” an agent says, “You want in?”

“Don’t ever agree to play dice with Deacon,” Drummer Boy warns, “He always insists on playing Liar’s Dice and he always wins.”

Deacon catches MacCready’s eye. “No surprise there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short! More soon though:)


	14. Baby, Won't You Come Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He smells like home and Deacon thinks again of blue sky for miles.

“Will!”

Deacon looks up from where he’s cleaning his pistol. MacCready has leapt to his feet, hurrying to greet the other man and Deacon can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Mac, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” 

The two men embrace and Deacon has to drop his eyes back to his gun. Stares at it unseeingly. He hears Will greeting Dez, decides it safe to look back up. MacCready has sat back down against a far wall but is watching Will, long fingers drumming against his thigh. He lights up when Will sits back down next to him, starts talking animatedly. He watches with a sick feeling in his stomach as Will’s brow furrows, eyes drifting to MacCready’s neck where the bruises Deacon left are still visible, peeking out from under Mac’s scarf. Will's mouth flattens into a thin line, hand clenching. He cuts MacCready off and Deacon can’t hear them but he sees Mac touch his neck self-consciously, glance over at him, Will following his gaze. When Will sees Deacon watching him, he whispers to MacCready furiously, loud enough Deacon can hear, 

“Him? He did that to you?”

MacCready opens his mouth, looking guilty that he gave Deacon away, but it’s too late, Will is striding across the room. Time for Deacon to make his exit. He’s halfway to the door when he’s stopped by Will yanking him around. 

“A word, agent,” he growls, and damn, he’s actually pretty scary when he’s mad. 

“Cockatoo. No? A different word? What about-”

He’s cut off by Will stepping forward until he can smell sweat and motor oil. “Now, Deacon.”

He turns around, striding out into the catacombs, not waiting for Deacon to answer or see if he’ll follow. Deacon considers not following, but he’d rather Will not make a scene where everybody can see, so he follows him, ignoring MacCready calling his name.

Will is leaning against a wall, tapping his foot impatiently. He face darkens even more when he sees Deacon. He’s surprisingly fast for such a big guy, and Deacon finds himself pinned against the wall with a huge hand wrapped around his throat, and he thinks vaguely that his neck will look like MacCready’s soon. 

“What the fuck did you do to him?”

Deacon doesn't bother struggling. He knows Will could snap his neck if he wanted to and right now he really looks like he wants to. 

“Nothing he didn't ask for. Begged for it actually,” he rasps. 

Will's fingers tighten around his neck and black dots swim behind his eyes. 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

Deacon gestures weakly at his throat and Will lets him go. He coughs, rubs his neck. He looks at Will over his glasses. The man’s face is red, eyes dark with anger. 

“Answer me.”

Deacon finally feels a surge of anger. He really does not appreciate being told what to do by some 200 year-old vault dweller. Especially not when it concerns MacCready. 

“I really don’t kiss and tell-”

“Tell me, or I’ll put a bullet through that pretty head of yours.” 

Deacon feels cold metal pressed to his temple. Well, this is quickly getting out of hand, he thinks. A small, petty part of him wants to hurt the man. Really hurt him. But considering he has the muzzle of a .44 held to his head, he has to resort to his best weapon: his words. 

“I fucked him,” Deacon says, savoring the shock that registers on Will’s face. “Hard. He let me grab his throat, he liked it when I squeezed. Came all over himself and-”

He’s cut off by Will’s fist making contact with his jaw. His lip splits and he tastes blood. Will’s boot catches him in the side, the kick breaking a rib. He stays doubled over, afraid that he will murder the man if he looks at him. 

“You touch him again and I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” Will snarls, “You don’t care what happens to him. He may not see it but I do. You use people, that’s just what you do. But you won’t do that to him, he deserves more than that. He’s a good man. Unlike you.” 

“I can’t argue with that,” Deacon says mildly, spitting blood into the dirt, trying more than he should have to to keep his voice even. He didn’t think anything anybody said could hurt him anymore, but hearing Will compare him to MacCready hurts, because he knows the man is right. He doesn’t deserve anyone, much less MacCready. He certainly didn’t deserve MacCready giving himself to Deacon the way he did.

Will is looking at him with ill-disguised contempt. “I’ll put up with you because I support the Railroad and your people are helping me, but you will stay away from Mac.” 

“Roger that,” Deacon mutters.

Will casts him one more disgusted look and stalks off back into HQ. Deacon swears, kicks a wall, and is rewarded with a lightning bolt of pain shooting up his side. He needs to repair his rib but he’d rather wrestle a Deathclaw than walk back into HQ now. The second anyone sees his busted face they’ll know exactly what happened. The idea of MacCready looking at him with worry, apologizing for Will, pitying him, is unbearable.

Squaring his shoulders, he limps back into HQ, eyes trained on his mattress. He ignores Drummer Boy’s raised eyebrows, Dez’s sigh. He snatches his bag up, slings his rifle over his shoulder, grabs a couple of stimpacks off Carrington’s desk, and heads towards the door. He’s almost there when MacCready steps in front of him. Deacon’s stomach twists at the clear concern written in his face.

“Deacon,” he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“No problem, MacCready,” he responds blithely, stepping around him.

“Where are you going?” MacCready asks, following him. 

“It’s time for me to go. Duty calls.”

“Bullshit,” MacCready snaps, grabbing his wrist, “You’re running away.”

Deacon finally meets his eyes. Clear blue, reminds him of endless fields stretching for miles under the sky. He feels himself falling, down, down, forgets who he is for a second. MacCready presses himself into Deacon, mouths his name into his neck and Deacon closes his eyes. He wants more than anything to sink into Mac, breathe in his scent, a mixture of leather and cigarette smoke. He smells like home and Deacon thinks again of blue sky for miles. He strokes his fingers up Mac’s side, feeling his ribs, imagining the soft skin against his. Presses a kiss to the man’s temple, light as air. Pulls away. 

He can’t stand the betrayal he sees in the other man’s eyes. Looks past him. Hates himself for his cowardice. 

“Take care of yourself, Mac,” he murmurs, finally looking at him, drinking in the sight of his face, committing it to memory.

And then he’s gone.


	15. Across the Sea, the Birds are Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready hauls himself to his feet, slings his pack over his shoulder. He needs to get out of this place, away from everything that reminds him of Deacon.

MacCready sits on the floor, back against the wall, polishing his rifle. He’s been doing that a lot lately. In fact his gun has never looked better. It gives him something to do with his hands, keeps his mind clear. Distantly, he hears someone splashing through the catacombs, heading into HQ. Even though the footfalls are far too heavy, he looks up hopefully, as he always does. Drummer Boy enters the room, scowling at his soaked pant legs and MacCready returns to polishing the gun, trying not to feel disappointed. 

 

It’s been almost two months since Deacon left. He’d asked every single Railroad agent in this damned place if they knew where he went but they’d all shrugged sympathetically. 

 

“Somewhere dangerous, hopefully,” Carrington had said cooly.

 

“Deacon? Fuck if anyone knows,” Drummer Boy had said, laughing like it was the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard.

 

“Dunno, my man, he wanders off a lot,” Tinker Tom had told him, barely looking up from his terminal.

 

“No idea. But you won’t find him unless he wants you to,” Glory had said, her eyes unusually soft.

 

Dez was the only one who had given him anything to work with. 

 

“Yes,” she’d said when he’d asked her, “I know where he is. And no, I won’t tell you. It would compromise his safety, and that’s something I won’t do.”

 

“Well do you know when he’ll be back?” MacCready had asked through gritted teeth. 

 

“With Deacon, you never know. Sometimes he’s gone for half a year, sometimes he doesn’t leave HQ for weeks.”

 

“Great,” MacCready mutters, heading for the exit.

 

“You won’t find him,” she calls after him, “Not unless he wants to be found.”

 

  * \- 



 

“Hey, Mac.”

 

MacCready looks up from his now gleaming gun. Will stands over him, smiling down at him, He looks up at the face of the man he trusts more than anyone else, tries to smile back. 

 

He’d been angry with Will after Deacon left, really angry. Screamed at him like a child, told him he had no right to do what he did. Will had just stood there, taking it, until he was done.

 

“I’m sorry, Mac,” he had said quietly, “I only did it because I care about you.”

 

MacCready had felt the fight go out of him. He sagged against the wall, let Will wrap his arms around him. 

 

“He’s bad news, Mac, you were right. I couldn’t let him fuck with you. Just . . . not you.”

 

MacCready had pressed his face into Will’s shoulder, thinking how different it was to be held by him than Deacon. Will was too big, too warm, too gentle with him. He let the other man hold him anyways, unable to resist the human contact. 

  
  


“Whats up?” he asks. 

 

“I’m setting out for  Goodneighbor to talk with Doctor Amari. I was hoping you’d come with me.”

 

MacCready hauls himself to his feet, slings his pack over his shoulder. He needs to get out of this place, away from everything that reminds him of Deacon.

 

“Lead the way, boss.”

 

  * \- 



 

Will and MacCready part ways when they get to Goodneighbor, Will heading for the Memory Den and MacCready heading for the Third Rail. He’s halfway down the stairs when he sees the large group of Gunners taking up most of the bar. 

 

“Dam-darn it,” he mutters to himself, turning around. 

 

He’s tired, unwilling to deal with whatever shit they are sure to throw at him. He considers going back to the Den and asking Kent if he can borrow a couple comics, decides against it, not interested in listening to the ghoul’s Silver Shroud bullshit. He could go back to his and Will’s room at the Rexford but he knows he can’t sleep and he’s in no mood to talk to Fred or Rufus either. He decides he’ll see what Hancock is up to. He’s not really into chems but Hancock has no short supply of liquor either. 

 

Hancock isn’t alone in his sitting room when MacCready finds him. A man is stretched out on one of the couches. He’s dressed in tattered jeans and a faded Nuka-World t-shirt, an old sea captain’s hat is worn low, hiding most of his face from view.

 

“Heya, Hancock,” he greets the ghoul sitting on the other couch.

 

At the sound of his voice, the man on the couch stirs and MacCready wonders if he’s asleep or drugged out. 

 

“Hey there, brother, take a seat. What brings you to my quaint little town?”

 

Hancock offers him some Jet but he declines. “Just here with Will. He’s down at the Memory Den and your bar is full of Gunners.”

 

Hancock rasps out a laugh. “You don’t want to catch up with ‘em for old time’s sake?”

 

MacCready grimaces. “Not a chance.”

 

Hancock pours him a drink which he gratefully accepts. 

 

“So, what’s new in Goodneighbor these days?” he asks.

 

Before Hancock can answer, Fahrenheit barges in.

 

“A word, Mayor?” she asks, giving MacCready a cold look. “It’s about Bobbi.”

 

Hancock sighs, excuses himself, leaving MacCready alone with the man on the sofa. He tries not to stare, casts his eyes around for a smoke. His eyes light upon what looks like a hand rolled cigarette. When he picks it up and examines, though, it he realizes it’s not a cigarette at all. It’s rolled like once but instead of tobacco inside, there’s some weird green goo. MacCready sniffs it, almost retches. He stares at the drug, something stirring in the back of his mind. He closes his eyes, trying to recall it.

 

_ Smooch . . . It’s all green and gooey. Tastes terrible . . . I was the only supply for miles _ .

 

His eyes fly open. He gets to his feet shakily, heart pounding. Hoping he’s wrong, he walks over to the man on the couch.

 

“Deacon?”

 

No answer. He stares down at the unmoving figure, makes up his mind. He yanks the captain’s hat off, revealing disheveled black hair. His eyes travel to the man’s unshaven face and he finds himself staring back at his own face reflected in a pair of black browline sunglasses.


	16. Let's Watch Them Scream Across the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon knows if there was ever a time to tell the truth this is it.

Deacon winces at the sudden brightness. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders why his eyes are open. Another sharp slap reminds him.

 

“Deacon!”

 

He tries to focus on the blurry shape yelling his name. He can’t seem to care who it is but he’s happy to see the person all the same. Everything is hazy and too bright, colors too sharp. He wants fall back into blissful oblivion, close his eyes and melt into the couch. But the shape is shaking him now and that really doesn’t feel good. He forces himself to focus on this rude person. Features slowly register with Deacon. A thin face, blue eyes like the desert sky. Smooch usually doesn’t deliver on the europhia part enough for Deacon’s liking but at the sight of this person, his cold heart leaps and warmth floods his veins. A name surfaces in his memory. 

 

_ MacCready _ .

 

Somewhere, far in the back of his chem-addled brain, Deacon is screaming at himself to  _ get up _ . 

 

_ Goddamnit, you bastard. Pull your shit together _ .

 

But it would be so much easier to close his eyes again, sink back into sweet sweet darkness. Deacon fights against the chems pulling his eyelids closed. 

 

“Deacon, fu-freaking get up!” The man that he’s sure he definitely knows has a hysterical edge to his voice. Deacon wants to reassure him. Tries to remember how to form words. 

 

“Mac.” The words feel foreign on his tongue which seems to be far too large for his mouth. 

 

Strong hands are suddenly grabbing him around the waist, hauling him into a sitting position. He looks down at the hands pulling at him and  _ hey he knows those hands _ . 

 

A second figure enters the room and Deacon grins lazily at the ghoul who enters. He smiles back, laughing low in his throat.  

 

“Deacon, you’ve returned to the land of the living. I was worried you’d become a permanent fixture on my couch.”

 

  * \- 



 

“What the hell, Hancock?” MacCready demands, looking between Deacon, who seems like he might fall back over any second, and Hancock who is sitting down with another canister of Jet like he doesn’t have a strung out Railroad agent on his couch. 

 

“Calm down, brother,” Hancock says, not even looking up, “Your boy’ll be fine.”

 

MacCready doesn’t scare easily. Especially not after travelling with Will for so long. Right now, though, he’s terrified. It’s not really that he thinks Deacon’s in danger of dying; he doesn’t think Hancock would let someone overdose on his couch. What scares him is seeing Deacon like this. Out of control. It’s like someone took the man he knows and has replaced him, like the Institute does with their synths. 

 

“How long will this last? How long has he been like this?” MacCready asks, hardly able to look at Deacon who is smiling faintly at them. 

 

“He’s been on this couch about a week. Gotta say I was pretty surprised to see him. We used to really get into some shit together but it’s been a long-”

 

Hancock stops talking at the look on MacCready’s face, clears his throat. “Anyways, he should be coming down in about an hour.”

 

“Why,” MacCready hisses, struggling to haul Deacon to his feet, “the hell would you give him that garbage?”

 

Hancock’s black eyes meet his. “Every man should get to decide his own fate.”

 

MacCready takes a deep breath, wills the ringing away. “What do I do with him?”

 

Hancock shrugs. “Let him ride it out. Try and get him to drink some water when he comes around. Stick him with an addictol.”

 

“Did he say anything?” MacCready asks quietly, “When he asked you for . . . the chems. Did he say why or . . . or anything?”

 

Hancock bares his yellow teeth in a grin. “He was unusually quiet. Said he needed to get his head straight. Odd way to do it but who am I to judge? Give people enough chems, though, and they start saying all sorts of things. Your guy here, he was muttering lots after he smoked up.” Hancock’s leer widens. “Kept saying ‘Barb’. Oh and, ‘Mac’. But I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything to you,  _ Mac _ Cready.”

 

MacCready doesn’t answer, focuses on leading Deacon to the door and down the stairs. No one gives them a second look as the pair stagger down the street to the Rexford. 

 

“I need a room” MacCready pants, wrapping an arm around Deacon’s nearly limp form and digging ten caps out of his pocket with the other hand. Clair grunts in response, motioning for them to go up. 

 

MacCready looks at the stairs, sighs. “C’mon, Deacon, help me out a little.”

 

Deacon lolls against him, dry lips pressing into MacCready’s neck, mumbles something unintelligible.  

 

It takes MacCready ten fucking minutes to drag Deacon up to their room. He lets the man fall on the bed, strips off his own coat. 

 

“You just stay there,” he pants, closing the door behind him. 

 

He finds Fred in the lobby. 

 

“Addictol,” he demands.

 

Fred laughs. “I usually sell the stuff addictol is meant to cure, but sure, I got some.”

 

MacCready pockets the inhaler, hands over a frankly absurd amount of caps. His next stop is the Memory Den. He quickly locates Will in the basement, deep in conversation with Amari.

 

“Will,” he says before the other man can speak, “Something’s come up. I’m sorry but I won’t be back tonight.”

 

“What-” Will starts, but MacCready cuts him off.

 

“Please, Will. This is something I have to do, and I don’t have time to explain. I’ll find you tomorrow. I promise.”

 

Will searches his face, finally nods. 

 

“Be careful, Mac.”

 

MacCready tries to smile. “Always am, boss.”

 

  * \- 



 

He’s not sure where he is when he wakes up. Feels the mattress underneath him, for a moment thinks he’s back at HQ. Then the pounding headache kicks in, the nausea, and  _ oh right _ . He opens one eye and then the next. Takes in his surroundings quickly without giving away that he’s awake. Dimly registers that he’s in the Rexford. Movement in the corner and his eyes find a figure hunched over in a chair. Tattered duster, stupid hat, cigarette dangling from his mouth. 

 

_ Oh fuck _ .

 

He wonders what the chances are of making it to the door before MacCready realizes what’s going on, but he’s seen the man’s reflexes first hand. Plus, the merc is closer to the door. He resigns himself to the situation and tries to figure out what state of mind Mac is in before he lets him know he’s conscious. MacCready’s face is pinched with some emotion. Worry? Anger? Deacon isn’t sure. He looks tired, either way, dark bags under his eyes like bruises. Looks way too old to only be twenty-two. Deacon tries to think of something witty to say. Come up empty.

 

“Hey.”

 

He shifts so his back is propped up against the wall, watches MacCready’s eyes snap to him. He’s silent a long while, just staring at Deacon, who shifts uncomfortably. He can’t read MacCready’s face which is a first, usually he’s like an open book. 

 

“So I see you got me into bed again,” he tries, “although I’m not sure it counts if I was unconscious.”

 

MacCready blinks at him. “You absolute fucking idiot.”

 

Deacon clicks his tongue, gets shakily to his feet, presses his back against the wall for support.  “Language.”

 

MacCready rises to his feet as well, hesitates, slowly walks over towards the bed. Deacon watches him, uneasy at being cornered. For a minute he thinks MacCready might hit him. He deserves it. Oh boy, does he deserve it. Instead he stops a couple of feet away from him, tosses him an Addictol, which Deacon catches, quickly inhales. MacCready’s voice when he speaks is almost a whisper.

 

“Why?”

 

Deacon knows if there was ever a time to tell the truth this is it. MacCready is looking at him, all sad blue eyes and twisted mouth, laid bare for Deacon. He deserves his honesty. And Deacon knows he can’t give him that. 

 

“I was undercover. Instead of a trader or a guard I was a junkie. Clever, huh?” he says, fighting to keep his voice light.  _ Coward _ .  _ You are such a goddamn coward, Deacon. _

 

MacCready does hit him this time. The punch snaps his head to the side and he bites his tongue, tastes the coppery tang of blood. Thinks to himself that he ought to fraternize less with people who seem so gung-ho to hit him. 

 

He rights his glasses, arranges his expression into something he hopes is close to blank. 

 

“You bastard,” MacCready spits, “Why did I expect anything else from you? You can’t take anything seriously, can you?”

 

The words register with Deacon and  _ oh no _ . If MacCready is expecting the truth from him now, it is seriously time to extricate himself. He thought disappearing would do the trick. Clearly he was wrong. Time for plan B. Deacon is no stranger to self-loathing, in fact they’re very intimate friends, but he still manages to disgust himself with the words that come out of his mouth.

 

“I take many things seriously. Cross-stitch, hula hooping, and shadow puppets to name a few.”

 

MacCready’s face shuts, his eyes dark and wounded, the fight going out of him and it’s a million times worse than being hit. He steps around MacCready, struggles to keep his voice even.

 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important matters to attend to.”

 

“What? No! You’re not going back there!” MacCready exclaims, grabbing Deacon’s arm and jerking him back and _Deacon_ _just_ _doesn’t_ _understand._ He wants nothing less than to hurt MacCready but the man isn’t giving him any other choice.

 

“No, I’m not,” Deacon says, trying to pry MacCready’s long fingers off his arm, “I’ve overstayed my welcome here, time to hit the open road.”

 

“Deacon, please, come back to HQ with me.” 

 

MacCready’s voice is almost pleading and Deacon feels panic rising in his chest. What has he done? How had he let this happen? MacCready is far too invested in his well-being and he has to put an end to it. Now. 

 

Before MacCready realizes what’s happened, Deacon has him pinned against the wall, his forearm across his chest and his knife pressing lightly against his throat.. Mac’s blue eyes are clear and wide like he can’t believe Deacon could ever do such a thing to him. Deacon has to look away, afraid he might stop breathing if he looks into them too long. 

 

“Listen to me, MacCready, because I won’t say it again. We are not friends. We are not partners. I am not coming back with you.” He presses the knife a little harder until a red stripe appears on the pale skin, thinks he might throw up at what he’s doing. “Don’t come looking for me again.”

 

Then he Deacon does what he does best. He leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I felt kinda bad for making Deacon do some of this stuff but I also don't think he'd drop his boundaries too easily and I could imagine him going to extreme measures to keep people away. So yeah, bad Deacon.


	17. Let's All Go and Meet Our Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without thinking about it, his feet carry him to the bedroom he and Deacon shared what seems like a lifetime ago.

Will finds him slumped on the rickety chair in the other man’s room, head in his hands.

“Mac?” Will questions cautiously, hesitating before placing a large hand on his shoulder.

When he doesn’t answer, Will tries again. “I, uh, thought you were busy tonight.”

“Things fell through,” MacCready mutters, not looking up, “And no, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright,” Will says mildly.

MacCready peeks around his fingers, watches Will deposit his jacket on the bureau and sit on the bed to remove his boots.

“I can’t go back to the Railroad’s HQ.”

Will looks up startled. “What do you mean?”

MacCready sighs, sits up and tries to look okay. “I can’t go back. I won’t go back. I understand if you have to, but,” he closes his eyes, “but I can’t go with you.”

Will is silent for a long time, his face scrunched up like he’s working out a complex math problem in his head. Finally he shakes his head, meets MacCready’s gaze.

“We’re partners. We’re sticking together. The Railroad has plenty of good agents, they don’t need me right now. Plus,” Will grins wolfishly, “I’ve been wanting to make the Brotherhood’s acquaintance.”

“You mean that?” MacCready asks, “Not the part about the stupid Brotherhood. The part about sticking together?”

“Of course, Mac,” Will says and MacCready feels his heart swell with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he whispers around the lump in his throat.

“Don’t mention it. We will have to stop back there so I can tell them I’m out of the scene for the time being, though.”

“No problem.”

He’s suddenly exhausted, the events of the night crashing down on him all at once.

“Scooch,” he says, pulling off his coat and undoing his ammo belts, placing his hat next to Will’s jacket.

He crawls into the bed, careful to keep as much distance between him and the other man as possible. Despite his fatigue, he stares at the ceiling for a long time before he drifts off. When he does sleep, he dreams of a man who shoots him in the chest, and when he looks into his face as he’s dying, he finds there’s nothing there.

-

Will pauses outside the church, seems to choose his words carefully.

“I, hm, understand if you don’t want to go in. I shouldn’t be long.”

MacCready thinks about seeing Deacon’s empty mattresses, his messy scrawl on the chalkboard, rolling his eyes at Carrington with nobody to laugh quietly at him.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “Maybe I’ll go see how the new safehouse is doing.”

“Sure,” Will says sounding relieved MacCready isn’t about to start crying or something, “I’ll meet you over there.”

The walk to Beacon Hill Apartments is short, but it feels longer without Deacon’s incessant chatter to keep him company. He lets himself in quietly, his footsteps echoing in the nearly empty building. He doesn’t see anyone and for that he is deeply grateful. Without thinking about it, his feet carry him to the bedroom he and Deacon shared what seems like a lifetime ago.

He sits on the bed, looks around the room. He’s not sure what he expected, but there’s no sign he and Deacon had ever been here. It looks exactly the same, except that instead of the golden light of morning, the room is bathed in the deep oranges and reds of sunset, shadows gathering in the corners of the room. Feeling self-conscious, even though he’s alone, he leans down to smell the mattress. It smells like years of cigarette smoke and sweat, and he’s probably imagining it but under it all he thinks smells gunpowder and woodsmoke.

MacCready sighs, and gets to his feet. He turns to leave when his eye catches something. Low on the wall, next to the head of the bed, is a strange marking, the setting sun bringing it out of the shadow and illuminating it in a brilliant orange like it’s on fire. MacCready runs his fingers over it, something stirring in his memory.

 

Will looks up in surprise when MacCready enters HQ.

“Hey, Mac, you okay?”

“Yeah,” MacCready replies distractedly, “Fine.”

“I thought you didn’t want-”

“Changed my mind,” MacCready cuts him off, eyes finding what he’s looking for.

His eyes rake over the chalkboard until he finds the railsign he’s looking for. Eight white lines centered around a small plus sign.

“Desdemona,” he calls, “Who else has been to the Beacon Hill safehouse?”

She looks up, confused. “No one. Just you and Deacon. He was the last person there, dropped off the synth care packages on his way out of town when he left.”

MacCready looks back at the chalkboard, thinks of the matching symbol painted carefully on the wall right where the sun would hit it as it set.

 

 _Ally_.


	18. They Don't Care Whose Side You're On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Christ, Deacon, what the hell did you do that you hate yourself so much?”

Time passes as it is wont to do. The long hot days grow shorter and colder, frost gathering on broken windows in the morning, gone by midday. They go to Sanctuary to help out Preston but MacCready can see how painful it is for Will to be there. So, they go north, find a lighthouse, make it their home until Will feels the road calling them again. MacCready turns twenty-three. Will takes him to the Third Rail, sticks a candle in a Fancy Lad Snack Cake, gives him new boots and more ammo than he can carry. Their pockets grow heavy with caps and the hollow space inside MacCready’s chest remains. They find a dog, Will names him Dogmeat, he doesn’t leave their side. Will watches MacCready by the shifting light of their campfires, remarks he looks too thin. They visit Vault 111, MacCready holds Will tight, helps him bury his wife. Will tells him stories of the world before the War and MacCready tells him about life in the Capital Wasteland. They sleep close at night, bodies pressed together in an attempt to block out the cold and all the other unpleasant things that live in the darkness. And MacCready thinks of Him every single day. 

 

They’re holed up in Diamond City after months of traipsing around the Commonwealth, the warm beds and Takahashi’s noodles drawing them towards the bright lights of the city. The two men are posted up at the noodle bar, on their second bowls, when a man approaches them. MacCready has his gun drawn before Will even notices the stranger. 

 

“Whoa, Mac,” Will says, stepping between him and the nervous looking man. 

 

“Excuse me, sir,” the stranger says, watching MacCready out of the corner of his eye, “do you have a Geiger counter?”

 

MacCready freezes, sees Will do the same.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Will says, composing himself, “but it’s in the shop.”

 

“Can we go somewhere a little less . . . conspicuous?” the tourist or agent or whatever the fuck asks, lowering his voice.

 

They move to an alleyway that no one else is skulking around in. 

 

“You’re with the Railroad?” Will asks.

 

The man nods. “Dez asked me to find you. We need your help bad.”

 

“What’s happened?”

 

“Ticonderoga has been compromised. We have a whole lot of . . . packages that need delivering to Dayton and Kendall and Beacon Hill. Dez . . . we all would appreciate if you could lend us a hand.”

 

“Of course!” Will exclaims, before looking guiltily at MacCready.

 

“It’s fine,” he says, sighing, “Let’s go rescue some toasters.”

 

  * \- 



 

Most of the synths have been moved to HQ so they can be split between the remaining safehouses. Through the veritable sea of people crammed into the underground headquarters, MacCready can see Glory’s silver hair and Tinker Tom’s goggles and feels a rush of affection. He might have missed them, just a little. 

 

Will is snatched away as soon has they arrive and MacCready wanders around, feeling lost, not sure what to do. 

 

“Hey, MacCready,” Glory calls, “get over here.”

 

He concedes, walking over to where she is rounding up a group of scared looking synths. 

 

“Make yourself useful,” she says, gesturing to the group, “take this lot to Beacon Hill.”

 

MacCready considers this for a moment. He’s not sure he’s the best one for the job, nor does he really want the responsibility of escorting a bunch of escaped synths through the streets, but being back in HQ is starting to wear on him.

 

“Yeah, sure,” he sighs, turns to the synths. “C’mon you lot. Try to not look so . . .suspicious.”

 

He spends the entire walk to the apartments waiting for the Institute to appear out of nowhere and put a well-placed bullet through his head. They all make it there in one piece, however, and MacCready sets them all up in their own room, reminding them of their care package. He avoids The room until a synth meekly asks if she should take it. 

 

“No,” he says quickly, too quickly, “No, take the room across the hall.”

 

He lets himself into what he thinks of as his room. The railsign is still there, stark in the dim room. He crouches down, traces it with his fingers. Wonders where Deacon is now, if he knows about Ticonderoga, if he ever thinks of him. He groans, leans his head against the wall. 

 

“Geeze, everybody’s a critic. I thought it looked nice.”

 

MacCready whirls around and his breath catches in his throat. He’s leaning in the doorway, one arm propped against the frame, in a way that would look casual if the tense line of his shoulders wasn’t so obvious. He’s dressed in his worn jeans and white t-shirt, black hair perfectly in place, eyes concealed behind black frames. He looks exactly the same, until he steps forward and the light hits him. His face is too thin, cheekbones sharp and prominent. He has a long cut over one eyebrow, stretching down to his cheek, and a split lip. He could use a shave, stubble covers his jaw. There are angry red scratches all over his arms, and his hands shake as he lights a cigarette. 

 

A million and one thoughts go through MacCready’s head. He’s not sure if he wants to embrace Deacon or shoot him. It’s so good to see him but it also twists something in his chest painfully. His mental image of Deacon doesn’t do the man justice; he’s a thousand times more handsome in person. Mac tries to think of a single thing to say. Can’t. Deacon is watching him carefully. 

 

“It’s nice of you to help out the Railroad-” he starts, but MacCready cuts him off.

 

“Don’t. Don’t you dare try to make small talk with me.”

 

“Fair enough,” Deacon says and he sounds like a dead man walking. 

 

“What happened to your face?” MacCready asks when the silence stretching between them becomes unbearable.

 

Deacon fingers the cut. “Courser”

 

His voice is even but MacCready hears a trace of bitterness behind it. 

 

“A  _ courser? _ How the hell are you still alive?”

 

“Luck,” Deacon spits out and there’s no mistaking the bitterness this time, “All those agents and synths dead and I’m still here because I got lucky.”

 

“If you came face-to-face with a courser, I don’t think luck is the word you’re looking for.”

 

Deacon laughs hollowly. “There’s no other word for it. If things were fair, I’d be the one to snuff it, not High Rise or Tommy Whispers or any of the others who deserved to live.”

 

“You don’t deserve to die,” MacCready says gruffly, still angry but he recognizes the self-loathing in Deacon’s voice, he hears it all the time in his, “You’re just as valuable to the Railroad as they were.”

 

“No. They were good men, good agents. They should be the ones standing here right now. Not me. Karma has one hell of a sense of humor.”

 

“Christ, Deacon, what the hell did you do that you hate yourself so much?” MacCready demands, his curiosity overriding his desire to tell Deacon to fuck right off. 

 

Deacon considers himself for a minute. “I’m a liar,” he says finally, laughing that funny little sad laugh, “Everyone knows it. I make no secret of it. Because the truth is, I’m a fraud. To my core.”

 

MacCready doesn’t know what to say, half of him wants to wrap his arms around Deacon, the other half doesn’t want to hear what he’s about to tell him, sure it's another lie. 

 

“When I was young, a hell of a long time ago, I was, well, scum. I was a bigot. A very violent bigot.”

 

MacCready can’t help but raise his eyebrows. This was not what he had been expecting. Deacon lights another cigarette, seemingly unaware of what he’s doing.

 

“Were you really that bad?” he questions, not sure he wants to hear the answer.

 

Deacon nods. “Worse than that. I ran with a gang in University Point. We called ourselves the UP Deathclaws. For kicks we’d terrorize anyone that we thought was a synth.”

 

MacCready has a nasty feeling in his gut. But he sits on the bed, doesn't protest when Deacon sits next to him. Staring at his hands,he tells MacCready everything. About lynching a man, about turning his back on his “brothers”. About Barbara. 

 

“She saw something in me that I didn’t know was there,” Deacon says, shaking his head, “Well, she was . . . she just was.”

 

MacCready listens to Deacon tell him that his wife was murdered by his old gang. That he murdered them in turn. When the man stops talking, they both sit silently. 

 

“Sounds like karma sucker punched you,” MacCready finally says, wincing at the words the second they leave his mouth.

 

“That she most certainly did.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t even know why I lie anymore. But I can’t tell the truth. Everyone - Tom, Dez, even that asshole Carrington - they deserve to be in the Railroad. I don’t. I'm everything wrong with this whole fucking Commonwealth.”

 

“I mean, what you did was pretty shi-crappy, that’s true. But honestly, you seem like way more of an asshole now than you were then.”

 

Deacon laughs at that, a real laugh and the sound is enough to raise a lump in MacCready’s throat. He forces himself to remember what Deacon said to him last time they saw each other, remember him holding a knife to his throat. The memory sears his chest like a hot iron. Makes himself remembers the way Deacon left him in that room, the way he felt like a child again, having his feelings hurt after putting his trust in the wrong person. But instead of the anger and embarrassment and overwhelming sorrow he had felt that night, Mac mostly just feels tired now. It hurts him to look at Deacon; he’s so devastatingly beautiful and MacCready can’t help but remember Deacon’s lips at his neck, a warm arm pulling him close in sleep, a soft-as-air kiss pressed against his temple. His throat constricts at the memory and he feels the chasm in his chest he had been trying to ignore rip open and threaten to swallow him. He casts around for something to distract him, to keep him from going under. 

 

“You're not the only one who has things to atone for,” he mumbles, looking out the window, “I told Lucy I was a soldier. Couldn't bear to tell her I was just a hired gun. And Duncan . . . It's only a matter of time before he's old enough to understand what I do. I can't bear the idea of him finding out.” 

 

MacCready is barely aware of saying the words, but he’s unable to stop himself, an unfortunate habit he seems to pick up around Deacon. He doesn’t understand why he’s trying to console Deacon, either, but the shame he hears in Deacon’s voice cuts him to the core.

 

“You're a good man, Mac. Your son is lucky that you're his father,” Deacon says gently. 

 

“You can't think I'm a good person and you're not. I've killed people for a  _ drink _ , Deacon. And you . . . you've put your entire self into saving people. Who the hell knows how long we have in this world; you've got to let the past go. Make your peace with it. You've more than made up for it.” 

 

Deacon is quiet and when MacCready looks.over, he's staring at him with a strange expression on his face. 

 

“This is why I can hardly live with myself,” he says, fingers moving to brush the underside of MacCready's wrist, and his body betrays him, his pulse speeding up at the contact, beating against Deacon's calloused fingers. “After every shitty thing I've done to you, you still show me kindness. And honesty.” 

 

“Yeah, well, I know you think you're all alone and no one else understands what it's like to live with regrets, but you're wrong. I saw my wife murdered in front of me too, Deacon,” he says softly, not used talking about Lucy. “So did Will. And we're both trying to make up for things, too, but it doesn't work when you push everyone away.” 

 

“Maybe we should start a club,” Deacon says, a strangled laugh escaping him, “The Dead Wives Society.”

 

MacCready rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Deacon.”

 

The smile fades from his lips. “In all seriousness, you're right. I know you're right. But even if I could get past my own hang-ups, I don't have someone like Will to . . . lean on or turn to or whatever people do. Somehow I don’t imagine Carrington will be up for a heart-to-heart.” 

 

“You could’ve had me,” MacCready whispers, looking anywhere but at Deacon, “I would have been there for you.”

 

He hears Deacon suck in a surprised breath and knows he’s caught him off guard for once. 

 

“Mac-”

 

“I’ve got to go,” he mumbles, standing, still refusing to look at Deacon, can't bear to hear him dismiss what he said. He needs to leave on his own terms, not be pushed away. 

 

Deacon stands too. “Mac, wait. Please.”

 

MacCready shakes his head, moves towards the door but Deacon is suddenly in front of him, fingers wrapping tightly around MacCready’s wrist, pulling him closer until he can feel his body heat. This close MacCready can see the bags under his eyes and the ghost of a bruise over one, notices that his stubble is a soft red that catches the sunlight. 

 

Deacon for once looks like he's struggling to find words. “I know I don’t get to ask for things, especially from you. But, I can’t leave again without you knowing that you . . . you mean . . . a lot to me. More than I should let you. It's dangerous for me to . . . care about people. When the Coursers start kicking down doors they don't just hit Railroad safehouses. Some friends and family have been known to get axed. I can't - I  _ won't _ \- let someone I care about die because of me. Not again.” 

 

Deacon’s face softens when he focuses on MacCready again. He gently smoothes a strand of hair out of his face and it’s such an intimate act that he shivers. 

 

“Don’t go,” he chokes out, throwing away the last shred of his self-respect.

 

He sees Deacon’s eyes close behind his sunglasses. 

 

“Mac, I have to.”

 

MacCready has had enough. Enough of Deacon’s lies and half-truths and self-loathing. He turns, blinking away hot tears like a child. 

 

Deacon groans like he’s in pain. Then cool hands are pulling him back, folding him into Deacon’s body, hands in his hair, on his hips, his chest, lips at his neck, and MacCready is drowning in him. 

 

“I know my word doesn’t mean shit to you, but, Mac, if you believe anything,” Deacon whispers, his voice raw, “believe this: I’m in your corner. Always have been.”

 


	19. We're So Afraid, I Prayed and Prayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready stares down the barrel of the gun, knows it's over.

_ I'm in your corner. Always have been.  _

 

The words ring in MacCready's ears even as he wills them away. When he closes his eyes at night, he can't chase away the memory of Deacon's hands on his body either, or the soft look on his face, the brush of his lips against his forehead, so light MacCready thought he might have imagined it. The way the fading sunlight lit him up as he pulled away from MacCready, left him standing in the empty room, cheeks wet. 

 

He didn't think he'd ever feel that sickening sorrow he felt after Lucy died again, but it sits in his stomach, stealing his appetite and his sleep. He often recalls something Will had said to him the first time he told him about Nora and he told Will about Lucy. A quote, Will had said, by an author long-dead, even before the war. 

 

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

 

It had resonated with Mac then and it did now. He had been terrified of living without Lucy, of raising Duncan alone. As he stared down the barren wasteland in front of him, the feeling returned. He was afraid. Afraid of never seeing Deacon again, of going the rest of his life waiting for him to pop back up before slipping away again. Fear that something would happen to Deacon and he would never show back up and MacCready would still spend the rest of his life waiting for him. 

 

He almost couldn't bear to stay and help out the Railroad but he had nothing else to do. He couldn't leave Will but he also couldn't ask Will to abandon ship on the Railroad. So he stayed at Beacon Hill to receive synths as they arrived. Drummer Boy called him the Welcoming Committee and it sounded like such a Deacon-joke that he almost smiled. Turned out, he really wasn't a great host, no surprise there. He'd show the synth their room, point out their care package, and give them the rundown on what would happen next before retreating to his room, closing the door behind him and not opening it until morning. 

 

He began smoking more, found it calmed his mind long enough to breathe. He also started drinking more, found it took the edge off a little, dulled in pain in his chest somewhat. He had little time for anything else, anyways, considering how hard the Railroad was working him. MacCready spent most of his days running between safe houses and HQ, clearing the surrounding areas of raiders with Will or Glory, offering to find Tom whatever junk he needed at the moment. It was all to meet an end though, because the bone-deep exhaustion MacCready felt at the end of the day was the only thing that allowed him to sleep.

 

It was that same blessed fatigue that has MacCready stumbling up the apartment stairs one night, already ripping the stopper out of a bottle of whiskey with his teeth, legs feeling like they’re made of lead. He had spent the better part of three days clearing out a nest of supermutants with Glory over by Kendall, and the whole ordeal had him nearly crawling into his bed. He flops onto the mattress, ready to drink enough whiskey to ensure he won’t dream before finally letting himself sleep, but his head bumps something sharp and painfully hard. Grumbling in irritation he reaches under the offending pillow, wondering what gun he forgot. His fingers close around something square and smooth, though, and pulls the book out, staring at it in shock.

 

It’s worn and battered but it looks more well-loved than anything. It’s also definitely not his. It’s so old that the cover has been rubbed off but flipping it open he finds the title in a beautiful gilded script.  _ In Search of Lost Time _ . MacCready runs his fingers over the words, trying to make sense of this foreign object in his room. It’s not until he sees the author’s name that things begin to come together.  _ Marcel Proust,  _  he reads and a foggy memory comes to mind of Deacon muttering about wanting to spend the day reading Proust before his plans got ruined. The memory is like a punch to the gut and he hastily flips through the book, looking for  _ anything _ . But the book isn’t giving up it’s secrets quite so easily, and MacCready sighs as he realizes that it’s just a book. No hollowed-out inside, no secret codes written in the margins. 

 

He sets it carefully down, tries to push away his weariness long enough to figure out where this enigmatic book had come from. He ponders it for a long time and, in the end, the only viable solution seems just as ridiculous as suggesting the book appeared out of thin air. It’s also unbearably painful to contemplate; the idea of Deacon leaving the book for him while he was gone makes something tighten painfully in Mac’s chest. The implications of it also have him shaking, because it means that Deacon is close, or was close, and that he was thinking of him. It all makes MacCready choke up, confusion and bitterness and sadness rising in his throat like bile.

 

He picks the book up again, rifling through it, and this time he notices that a page is dog-eared. Flipping to the marked page, his eyes immediately find a passage underlined in smudged ink. He reads it slowly. Reads it again. And again.

  
  


_ For we are not as faithful to the being we have most loved as we are to ourselves and sooner or later we forget her - since that is one of our characteristics - so as to start loving another.  _

  
  


He tries to work out the significance and only comes up with something he knows can't be true. Deacon left him. Whatever he felt for MacCready was not what MacCready felt for him. He had made that clear time and time again. But he re-reads the passage until he knew it by heart. Only when his sight is blurry with exhaustion does he carefully place the book in the breast pocket of his duster, next to a carved wooden soldier and Will’s note. Mementoes from all the people who had made his life in this wasteland a little brighter, a little warmer. 

  
  


  * \- 



  
  


He's smoking a cigarette and staring out the window when his door slams open with a bang.

 

“What the hell?” he snaps irritability, turning to glare at the intruder. 

 

A man stands in his doorway, face blank, pistol pointed at MacCready's head. He takes in his outfit and feels his stomach drop. The man is wearing a long black leather coat, ribbed at the shoulders and cinched at the waist. Mac vaguely wonders if he can get Will's attention and, if so, whether he might be able to get some of the synths out before the Courser can get to them. He glances back out the window, finds Will's figure working on his power armor in the yard. He looks back at the Courser, slowly rising to his feet, hands held up. 

 

“Do not move,” the Courser says, voice oddly flat. 

 

“They're not here,” MacCready lies, stalling while he figures out how to get Will's attention, “The synths.”

 

“Do not lie to me,” the Courser says, “I know you are hiding escaped synths here. Tell me where the other safehouses are and I will let you live.”

 

For a second, MacCready wavers. But then he imagines the dozens of synths he helped rehabilitate, whose names he's learned, and he knows his life isn't worth any more than theirs. He thinks of Deacon, the look on his face when they found the dead synth at the Taphouse. He knows he’d rather die than make Deacon go through that a hundred times over. Unluckily for him, he thinks, that’s exactly what is going to happen.

 

“Go to hell,” he spits.

 

In one swift motion he smashes the window open, briefly sees Will look up, before he hits the ground, a bullet whizzing over his head. 

 

“Will!” he shouts, narrowly missing another bullet, reaching for his holdout pistol in his waistband, “WILL!”

 

He fires off a couple of shots and some meet their intended target but the Courser doesn't even falter. Pain rips through him as a bullet lodges itself in his shoulder. Distantly, he can hear Will's power armor clanging as he runs towards the building. 

 

“This is your last chance. Tell me the location of the other safehouses.” 

 

MacCready stares down the barrel of the gun, knows it's over. He hopes Will will be able to get the synths out. 

 

“Get fucked you Institute Toaster,” he snarls, sinking his knife deep into the Courser’s foot, pinning it to the floor. 

 

His face briefly registers surprise before it's wiped blank again. His eyes find MacCready’s and he fires. MacCready looks down at his stomach, watches as blood begins to spread out from a dark hole. He stays with it long enough to see Will appear behind the Courser, before he lets his head drop to the floor. He stares at the ceiling. Thinks of Duncan, who he’ll never get to see grow up. Of Will. Of Deacon. He feels tears dripping down his face, falling to the floor. Will is shouting but it sounds a long ways off. MacCready's vision is starting to blur, black creeping into the edges and he knows this is it. His eyes find the white rail sign as darkness envelopes him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet y'all thought the angst was over! Syke!! Sorry bbs:) we're almost done though!
> 
> Also, clearly, I live for literary references.


	20. Before I Learned to Love the Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He feels fear wash over him like a wave. He wants to shake Mac, tell him to get up, tell him that he’s MacCready, he’s unbeatable. Tell him that he can’t lose him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, my loves, here it is, the final chapter (don't worry, I already have like 7 more MacDeacon one-shots written)! 
> 
> I actually really don't think Deacon should be a romancable character and I almost wrote this chapter very differently but I just couldn't do it. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and commented and left kudos! Let me know what you think of this chapter!

Deacon is half-listening to Dez as she rambles on about possible new safehouse locations to him and Glory when a loud clanking alerts them to someone approaching. A moment later Will barrels through the door, power armor on save for his helmet. He's out of breath, hair plastered to his face with sweat, eyes wild. 

 

“Where is Carrington?” he demands, looking around for the doctor. 

 

It takes Deacon a second to notice he's carrying something and another second to realize it's a person. The man looks so small in Will's arms and too pale. Deacon's heart starts a sickening rhythm as he edges closer. Familiar features come into focus; sharp cheekbones, light brown hair, ammo pouches wrapped tightly around slim legs. When Deacon's eyes land on his stomach, he feels the ground disappear out from under him. His shirt and duster are soaked in blood, the material almost black with liquid. He tries to form words to ask  _ what the fuck happened _ but he can't. 

 

He's never been so happy to see Carrington as when he appears from the back room. He assesses the situation quickly, instructing Will to move MacCready to a bed. Deacon follows as if in a dream, bending down to fumble at the man's wrist, feeling the soft skin under his fingers. He makes a choked sound when he finds a pulse, faint and fluttering. 

 

“Deacon,  _ move _ ,” Carrington hisses, pushing him out of the way. 

 

MacCready's shirt is cut open and Deacon leans against a pillar for support, unable to look away from the hole, dark against the pale skin. He feels the same way as when he's somewhere high up, that same dizzying fear mixed with nausea, blood thrumming in his ears. 

 

Carrington is working quickly, pulling out blood packs and stimpacks and Med-X. Deacon wants to scream at him to hurry up, that Mac is fucking  _ dying _ . 

 

“What the hell happened?” Dez asks.

 

“Goddamn Courser,” Will growls, eyes never leaving MacCready's still body, “Shot him when he wouldn't give up the other safehouse locations.”

 

“And the synths?” Glory asks. 

 

“Safe. All of them. Mac distracted him long enough that I was able to take him out before he could find them. Crazy bastard pinned him to the floor with a knife through his foot.” 

 

At that, Deacon falls to the floor next to MacCready, ignoring Carrington’s protests. He crouches over him, fingers wiping away a trickle of blood from his mouth. 

 

“Carrington,” he says, voice low and ragged, “if you do not fix him, I will murder you.” 

 

“Yes, thank you, Deacon. You're so helpful as always. I am trying my hardest. The man has a serious stomach wound. Normally I wouldn't even bother-”

 

The looks Will and Deacon give him have him shutting his mouth tightly and injecting MacCready with a couple of stimpacks. 

 

“That's all I can do for now. The bleeding has stopped and any organ damage should be repaired. I've given him all the bloodpacks we have. Time to let his body heal.” 

 

Deacon collapses next to MacCready's head, his mind flashing to Barbara's body. She had been just as still, just as cold. He feels fear wash over him like a wave. He wants to shake MacCready, tell him to get up, tell him that he’s  _ MacCready _ , he’s unbeatable. Tell him that he can’t lose him too. Instead he takes his hand, wincing at how cold it is, squeezes it tightly. 

 

He looks up when Will takes a seat on MacCready’s other side. He looks as bad as Deacon feels. He nods at him curtly and Deacon nods back, doesn't argue when Will takes MacCready's other hand in his. 

 

He looks down at Mac’s slight form, tries to tell himself that this is exactly what he was worried about, that he should never have let himself get so attached to MacCready. Instead, all he can think of is his laugh and how infectious it is, his stupid jokes, his constant grumblings, the feeling of his lips against Deacon's skin, the noises he makes while asleep. He imagines MacCready keeping the Courser fixated on him long enough to ensure the synths’ safety, knowing what it meant for him. Some cold part of Deacon is telling him to run, to  _ get away _ before it all blows up in his face, but the voice is quieter than usual, easier to silence. 

 

  * \- 



 

From somewhere far away he hears the murmuring of voices. He briefly thinks he’s back in Little Lamplight, that the voices he hears are Joseph and Lucy and all the others. Reality begins to set in, though, and with it the feeling that a deathclaw was playing catch with him. It hurts to breathe and he hasn’t even tried moving yet. Cautiously he squints through his closed eyes, trying to figure out where he is. Fuzzy shapes swim into view and when he sees Glory’s silver hair he knows he’s in HQ. Vaguely he remembers something  _ big _ having happened but he can’t quite remember what, and the pain is too distracting to focus on it. Someone shifts near him and he sees a man resting against a wall near his head.  _ Will _ . The name comes to him after a second and MacCready feels relief wash over him. If Will is here, he must be safe.

 

He almost jumps when something twitches in his hand and he glances over to his right. Another man is leaning against a wall, dark sunglasses covering his eyes. It’s his hand that is twitching in MacCready’s. Their fingers are loosely laced together as if they fell asleep holding hands. The sight of the man makes his chest warm and a second later he recognizes the feeling as happiness. The man lets out a soft grumble in his sleep and it's his voice that jogs Mac’s memory.  _ Deacon _ . With his name, the entire memory hits him. The safehouse. The Courser. 

 

His eyes fly fully open and he struggles to sit up. 

 

“Woah!” Will shouts, trying to push him back down, “Take it easy, Mac. You’re fine, you’re safe.”

 

MacCready leans back on his elbows, pain wracking his chest and stomach. He closes his eyes, takes deep breaths. 

 

“What happened?” he asks, mouth dry and throat scratchy. 

 

Will shakes his head, pulls him into a gentle hug. “Nothing. I mean, I took out the Courser but everyone is fine. Well, except you. Bastard shot you in the stomach and shoulder. We thought you were a goner.” 

 

MacCready rasps out a laugh. “Can’t get rid of me that easily. The synths are safe, though?”

 

“Yes,” a different voice says, “Because of you.”

 

Mac turns to look at him. He looks just as exhausted as the last time they met, if not more so. But he’s smiling at MacCready and the sight of it makes that happy feeling in chest grow. 

 

“Deacon.”

 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Deacon says, rubbing a thumb over MacCready’s knuckles, their hands still intertwined. 

 

Will coughs uncomfortably. “I’m gonna, uh, get you some water, Mac.”

 

MacCready nods, watches Will hurry away, before turning back to Deacon. 

 

“Didn’t think I’d being seeing you again so soon.”

 

He tries to rise into a sitting position, wincing. Deacon is immediately at his side, gently guiding his back to the wall, stuffing blankets and coats behind him for padding. MacCready nods his appreciation, squeezing his eyes shut through the wave of nauseating pain that rolls over him. 

 

“Well I didn’t factor in the possibility of you getting shot in the stomach by a Courser,” Deacon says, his voice light but his hand tightens around MacCready’s. “Do you want something for that pain?”

 

MacCready shakes his head. “Not now.”

 

“Mac,” Deacon says, voice suddenly intent, moving closer, “What you did . . . it was . . . something.”

 

MacCready quirks an eyebrow. “Uh, thanks?”

 

Deacon huffs in frustration. “No, I mean that, well, I didn’t think . . . most people wouldn’t take a bullet for a bunch of synths.”

 

“Guess I’ve been hanging around you lunatics too long.”

 

“We’re a fun bunch, aren’t we? Look, I knew you were a good guy but this is more than that. What you did was, well, it was amazing, Mac.”

 

MacCready feels his face redden. “Ah well, all in a day’s work,” he says, blithely. 

 

Deacon shakes his head. “No, Mac, don’t shrug this off. I know I’m not one to say that, but what you did was really important. You saved a lot of lives. For a faction that you’re not even a part of. Without anyone asking you to. You could have told that Courser where the other safehouses were and no one would have ever known it was you.”

 

MacCready looks down. “I . . . I thought of you. When the Courser gave me the choice, I thought of you. Well, I also thought of the synths and how I knew their names and their room numbers and-” he realizes he’s rambling, slows down, takes a breath, “But I thought of you. And how I couldn’t put you through that. I knew you’d take it so hard.”

 

Deacon is silent for a moment, hand tightly gripping MacCready’s. He almost wishes he hadn’t said anything when Deacon speaks.

 

“Mac,” he says, his voice sounding strangled, “I would have taken you dying harder.”

 

MacCready blinks at him. “Oh. I . . . didn’t think of that.”

 

Deacon barks out a laugh, fingers pinching between his eyes. “You fucking idiot.”

 

MacCready bristles. “Well how the hell should I have known that? You’re harder to read than that fu-freaking book I found under the pillow!”

 

Deacon grins and the sight of it is so lovely that MacCready almost sighs like some schoolgirl. “Proust isn’t your cup of tea? That’s all right, I can overlook that.”

 

“I liked what I read. Especially that part . . . the one that you underlined,” MacCready mumbles before a horrible thought strikes him, “ _ You _ did underline that, right?”

 

Deacon smiles wider. “Yes, Mac, that was me. What kind of spy would I be if I didn’t leave you secret codes in books or on bedroom walls?”

 

MacCready knits his brow in confusion. “But that wasn’t meant for me, was it?”

 

Now Deacon looks confused. “Of course it was. Who else would it be for?”

 

“I thought maybe your wife or something.”

 

Deacon laughs, low and quiet, the sound sending shivers down MacCready’s spine. “No, MacCready. That was for you. I’m not so great with expressing myself with my words, if you hadn’t noticed. I thought I could do a better job using someone else’s.”

 

“So does that mean . . .?” MacCready can’t bring himself to say the words out loud, can’t imagine what he’d do if he’s still misunderstanding it all. 

 

Deacon smiles again, softer this time, his fingers resuming their gentle sweep over MacCready’s knuckles. “You should rest some more.”

 

“No!” MacCready protests, trying to sit up straighter, sure Deacon will disappear the second he closes his eyes.

 

As if he can read his mind, Deacon scoots closer, passes a cool hand down the side of MacCready’s face and it’s all he can do not to close his eyes and lean into the touch. “I’m not going anywhere, Mac.”

 

“Bullshit,” Mac sighs, too tired and in too much pain to hold back his swearing. 

 

“Yeah, I can see why you’d think that,” Deacon says, looking regretful. “But this time, I’m not lying.”

 

MacCready wants to believe him but every time he’s tried that it’s come back to bite him. 

 

“I  _ promise _ ,” Deacon insists, “I know that doesn’t mean jack shit, but still. Anyways, I think Will would beat me to death if I tried to leave you so there’s that.”

 

MacCready wants to argue but the pain in his torso is steadily getting worse.

 

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Find that doctor for me, would ya?”

 

“I told you, I’m not going anywhere,” Deacon says before grinning mischievously, “Carrington! Hey, CARRINGTON!”

 

One very annoyed looking Carrington strides over, opening his mouth to no doubt tear Deacon a new one, but MacCready helpfully decides it’s a good time to cough pitifully. Still glaring at Deacon, the doctor fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a slew of medical supplies, half of which MacCready doesn’t even recognize. Still, he lets Carrington inject him with the stuff, feels his head grow fuzzy, his limbs starting to feel heavy. 

 

“He needs sleep, Deacon,” he hears Carrington reprimanding the other agent.

 

“I was just telling him a bedtime story!”

 

MacCready chuckles at that, his head bouncing painfully against the brick wall. Suddenly cool hands are gently settling him back down on the mattress, smoothing his hair out of his face. Deacon appears over him, expression almost tender. 

 

“Please . . . stay,” he manages to get out against the pull of sleep.

 

Deacon pulls a book out of somewhere, settling back against the wall, one hand finding MacCready’s. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

 

  * \- 



 

When he wakes again, MacCready is amazed at how much better he feels. He stretches lazily, feeling sore but otherwise fine. He makes a mental note not to be such a dick to Carrington. 

 

“How’s my favorite merc doin’?”

 

MacCready grins at Will, who’s pulled up a chair next to his mattress and has looked up from fiddling with his Pip-Boy. “Right as rain, boss.”

 

His smile fades when he realizes the space next to him is empty. Deacon is nowhere to be seen. Will follows his gaze, sighs. 

 

“He just went out for a smoke. Asshole hasn’t left your side since I brought you here.”

 

MacCready tries to ignore how pleased he is to hear that. “Ah.”

 

Will shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know what you see in him, Mac, I probably never will, but I do have to say that he was  _ distraught _ when I brought you in. Even he’s not that good of an actor.”

 

“What can I say, I’m a pretty likable guy.”

 

Will rolls his eyes. “Great, you’re starting to sound like him. Also, for the record, you’re not all that likable. You were very rude when I first met you. Come to think of it, you still are.”

 

MacCready flips him off good naturedly, rising to his feet, shrugging off Will’s attempt to help him.

 

“I got it, boss.”

 

“Where are you going?” Will asks, hovering nervously around MacCready as if he might drop dead.

 

“I have to take a piss.”

 

“Oh. Well don’t let me stop you.”

 

“Thanks,” MacCready says dryly, heading towards the exit, letting the other agents clap him on the back and thank him as he goes. 

 

He breathes in the cool air outside the church, thanks whoever is listening for letting him live to feel fresh air again.  _ Probably should be thanking Will and Carrington, actually.  _ He starts to fumble for his cigarettes when he realizes he’s not wearing his own shirt or his duster. 

 

“Looking for these?”

 

He rolls his eyes, turning to accept the cigarette Deacon is holding out to him. 

 

“Could you be more cliche?”

 

Deacon holds a hand to his heart. “You wound me, MacCready.”

 

He leans against the wall, takes a drag, blows the smoke out before speaking. “We need to talk, Deacon.”

 

Deacon sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

 

They sit next to each other on the church’s crumbling steps, close enough their shoulders touch. MacCready clears his throat, only slightly better at this than Deacon. 

 

“I’m sure you are . . . aware that I, hm, like you, Deacon. A lot. I, uh, think I might . . . well I want to be . . . with you. And I know you don’t feel the same way but maybe you feel  _ some _ way-”

 

MacCready shakes his head in frustration, unable to adequately express what he's trying to say. He tries to build his courage and nearly fails. He's more nervous than he's ever been in combat or with Lucy or that time him and Will found a whole nest of deathclaws, but he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath. 

 

Deacon jerks away slightly when MacCready's lips meet his, his breath catching in surprise. Deacon's lips are cool and soft against his but unmoving, his frame rigid. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in a part not wholly consumed with kissing Deacon, he acknowledges that this is probably the first and last time this will happen. With that in mind, he tentatively cups Deacon's face in his hand, feeling his stubble scratch against his fingers. 

 

That's all it takes, that small gesture. Deacon's lips part under MacCready's and he lets out a soft sigh that sounds almost like a whimper and the sound of it makes warmth pool in Mac's stomach. 

 

Deacon kisses him like a dying man, all smashed teeth and hands tangled almost painfully in his hair. Kissing him is nothing like MacCready imagined but it’s better. He slips his  tongue softly into Deacon's mouth, feels the man tense under his hands again before relaxing, letting MacCready in. He tastes like cigarettes and Nuka-Cola Quantum. When they separate, both men are panting softly. MacCready's takes in Deacon's swollen lips, feels the warmth in his stomach move to his groin. He wonders vaguely if he could have Deacon right here on the church steps and with the way Deacon is looking at him, lips slightly parted, color high on his cheeks, Mac is pretty sure he could. The idea makes his stomach lurch in excitement, but he pushes his arousal aside, tries to focus on putting coherent sentences together.

 

“You can’t keep jerking me around, Deacon,” he says softly, “I really care about you and if you don’t feel the same way about me then I need to go and you have to stay away from me because . . . because it hurts too much to have you keep walking away.”

 

Deacon groans, running a hand through his hair. “You’re really gonna make me spell this out? Fine. Mac, I feel things about you that I haven’t felt in  _ years _ . The only thing I’ve cared about, for so long, has been the Railroad. And then you came along and I should be out there doing my job but I couldn’t make myself leave you and  _ fuck _ that scares me.”

 

MacCready chooses his words carefully. “I know you think that caring about people is a liability but sometimes it protects you. _I_ can protect you, Deacon.”

 

And then Deacon is kissing him again, deeply, and it stirs something inside MacCready that hasn’t moved in a long time, not since he met Lucy.

 

“Mac,” Deacon sighs, pulling back, “I want . . . you. But even if I could ever convince myself I deserve you or should be allowed to have you, I don’t know if I could give you what you want. I make a point not to get close to people, I’m not sure I can un-learn that.”

 

“I can help you. I’m not expecting much, Deacon, but god,” MacCready laughs, “I haven’t felt like this about anyone since Lucy. That means something to me.”

 

“I know. I didn’t think that after Barbara I could ever . . . you’ve changed things for me,  _ a lot _ , and . . . yeah, we work good together. I want to . . . stay with you,” Deacon says, uncharacteristically stumbling over his words.

 

“We can take is slow. As slow as you need,” MacCready assures him, brushing his fingers against Deacon’s clenched fist, “But, you can’t leave anymore. You’ve got to trust me and I need to be able to trust you.”

 

Deacon nods slowly. He flinches when MacCready reaches up but he lets the other man slide the sunglasses off, watches as he tucks them in a pocket. He blinks at MacCready and he feels the air go out of him in a whoosh. Deacon’s eyes are maybe the bluest things he’s ever seen. They remind him of an old picture of the ocean he saw once; dazzling blue, deep and endless. No wonder Deacon insists on wearing sunglasses all the time; his eyes would give him away in a second. They’re soft as they watch MacCready, clouded with some emotion he can’t read.

 

“You’re beautiful,” MacCready blurts out, his face heating up instantly.

 

Deacon blinks again, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re one to talk.”

 

MacCready hands the sunglasses back. “I don’t care if you wear these around everyone else, but just . . . not around me, okay?”

 

It’s the most metaphoric Mac has ever been and he hopes Deacon understands what he’s trying to say. Deacon seems to understand, nods again.

 

“And you can’t keep running off, either.”

 

Deacon exhales loudly. “You’re kinda high-maintenance.”

 

MacCready scowls at him and Deacon holds his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, I know. No running away. Face my fears and all that.”

 

Mac takes Deacon’s larger hand in his, blushing again and looking at his feet. “Okay, good. Thank you.”

 

“For you,” Deacon whispers, “Anything.”

 

The declaration makes a lump rise in his throat and he stares harder at his feet.  _ If you fucking cry, I swear to god, _ he thinks furiously. 

 

“You know that I . . . I’m with you no matter what, right?” he mutters, chancing a look at Deacon, “I’ve got your back no matter what.”

 

He breaks into a dazzling smile and MacCready has never seen one but he’s sure that an atom bomb has nothing on Deacon.

 

“I know. And I’m with you, Mac, I promise,” He presses his forehead to MacCready's, closes his eyes, “When shit goes down, I’m with you to the end.”

  
  



	21. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TinyFakeFanficRock had the great idea of adding the alternate ending for this chapter. Warning: MEGA angst. There are no happy endings here, you've been warned.

Deacon is half-listening to Dez as she rambles on about possible new safehouse locations to him and Glory when a loud clanking alerts them to someone approaching. A moment later Will barrels through the door, power armor on save for his helmet. He's out of breath, hair plastered to his face with sweat, eyes wild. 

 

“Where is Carrington?” he demands, looking around for the doctor. 

 

It takes Deacon a second to notice he's carrying something and another second to realize it's a person. The man looks so small in Will's arms and too pale. Deacon's heart starts a sickening rhythm as he edges closer. Familiar features come into focus; sharp cheekbones, light brown hair, ammo pouches wrapped tightly around slim legs. When Deacon's eyes land on his stomach, he feels the ground disappear out from under him. His shirt and duster are soaked in blood, the material almost black with liquid. He tries to form words to ask  _ what the fuck happened _ but he can't. 

 

He's never been so happy to see Carrington as when he appears from the back room. He assesses the situation quickly, instructing Will to move MacCready to a bed. Deacon follows as if in a dream, bending down to fumble at the man's wrist, feeling the soft skin under his fingers. He makes a choked sound when he finds a pulse, faint and fluttering. 

 

“Deacon,  _ move _ ,” Carrington hisses, pushing him out of the way. 

 

MacCready's shirt is cut open and Deacon leans against a pillar for support, unable to look away from the hole, dark against the pale skin. He feels the same way as when he's somewhere high up, that same dizzying fear mixed with nausea, blood thrumming in his ears. 

 

Carrington is working quickly, pulling out blood packs and stimpacks and Med-X. Deacon wants to scream at him to hurry up, that Mac is fucking  _ dying _ . 

 

“What the hell happened?” Dez asks.

 

“Goddamn Courser,” Will growls, eyes never leaving MacCready's still body, “Shot him when he wouldn't give up the other safehouse locations.”

 

“And the synths?” Glory asks. 

 

“Safe. All of them. Mac distracted him long enough that I was able to take him out before he could find them. Crazy bastard pinned him to the floor with a knife through his foot.” 

 

At that, Deacon falls to the floor next to MacCready, ignoring Carrington’s protests. He crouches over him, fingers wiping away a trickle of blood from his mouth. 

 

“Carrington,” he says, voice low and ragged, “if you do not fix him, I will murder you.” 

 

“Yes, thank you, Deacon. You're so helpful as always. I am trying my hardest. The man has a serious stomach wound. Normally I wouldn't even bother-”

 

The looks Will and Deacon give him have him shutting his mouth tightly and injecting MacCready with a couple of stimpacks. 

 

“That's all I can do for now. The bleeding has stopped and any organ damage should be repaired. I've given him all the bloodpacks we have. Time to let his body heal.” 

 

Deacon collapses next to MacCready's head, his mind flashing to Barbara's body. She had been just as still, just as cold. He feels fear wash over him like a wave. He wants to shake MacCready, tell him to get up, tell him that he’s  _ MacCready _ , he’s unbeatable. Tell him that he can’t lose him too. Instead he takes his hand, wincing at how cold it is, squeezes it tightly. 

 

He looks up when Will takes a seat on MacCready’s other side. He looks as bad as Deacon feels. He nods at him curtly and Deacon nods back, doesn't argue when Will takes MacCready's other hand in his. 

 

He looks down at Mac’s slight form, tries to tell himself that this is exactly what he was worried about, that he should never have let himself get so attached to MacCready. Instead, all he can think of is his laugh and how infectious it is, his stupid jokes, his constant grumblings, the feeling of his lips against Deacon's skin, the noises he makes while asleep. He imagines MacCready keeping the Courser fixated on him long enough to ensure the synths’ safety, knowing what it meant for him. Some cold part of Deacon is telling him to run, to  _ get away _ before it all blows up in his face, but the voice is quieter than usual, easier to silence. 

 

  * \- 



 

From somewhere far away he hears the murmuring of voices. He briefly thinks he’s back in Little Lamplight, that the voices he hears are Joseph and Lucy and all the others. Reality begins to set in, though, and with it the feeling that a deathclaw was playing catch with him. It hurts to breathe and he hasn’t even tried moving yet. Cautiously he squints through his closed eyes, trying to figure out where he is. Fuzzy shapes swim into view and when he sees Glory’s silver hair he knows he’s in HQ. Vaguely he remembers something  _ big _ having happened but he can’t quite remember what, and the pain is too distracting to focus on it. Someone shifts near him and he sees a man resting against a wall near his head.  _ Will _ . The name comes to him after a second and MacCready feels relief wash over him. If Will is here, he must be safe.

 

He almost jumps when something twitches in his hand and he glances over to his right. Another man is leaning against a wall, dark sunglasses covering his eyes. It’s his hand that is twitching in MacCready’s. Their fingers are loosely laced together as if they fell asleep holding hands. The sight of the man makes his chest warm and a second later he recognizes the feeling as happiness. The man lets out a soft grumble in his sleep and it's his voice that jogs Mac’s memory.  _ Deacon _ . With his name, the entire memory hits him. The safehouse. The Courser. 

 

His eyes fly fully open and he struggles to sit up. 

 

“Woah!” Will shouts, trying to push him back down, “Take it easy, Mac. You’re fine, you’re safe.”

 

MacCready leans back on his elbows, pain wracking his chest and stomach. He closes his eyes, takes deep breaths. 

 

“What happened?” he asks, mouth dry and throat scratchy. 

 

Will shakes his head, pulls him into a gentle hug. “Nothing. I mean, I took out the Courser but everyone is fine. Well, except you. Bastard shot you in the stomach and shoulder. We thought you were a goner.” 

 

MacCready rasps out a laugh. “Can’t get rid of me that easily. The synths are safe, though?”

 

“Yes,” a different voice says, “Because of you.”

 

Mac turns to look at him. He looks just as exhausted as the last time they met, if not more so. But he’s smiling at MacCready and the sight of it makes that happy feeling in chest grow. 

 

“Deacon.”

 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Deacon says, rubbing a thumb over MacCready’s knuckles, their hands still intertwined. 

 

Will coughs uncomfortably. “I’m gonna, uh, get you some water, Mac.”

 

MacCready nods, watches Will hurry away, before turning back to Deacon. 

 

“Didn’t think I’d being seeing you again so soon.”

 

He tries to rise into a sitting position, wincing. Deacon is immediately at his side, gently guiding his back to the wall, stuffing blankets and coats behind him for padding. MacCready nods his appreciation, squeezing his eyes shut through the wave of nauseating pain that rolls over him. 

 

“Well I didn’t factor in the possibility of you getting shot in the stomach by a Courser,” Deacon says, his voice light but his hand tightens around MacCready’s. “Do you want something for that pain?”

 

MacCready shakes his head. “Not now.”

 

“Mac,” Deacon says, voice suddenly intent, moving closer, “What you did . . . it was . . . something.”

 

MacCready quirks an eyebrow. “Uh, thanks?”

 

Deacon huffs in frustration. “No, I mean that, well, I didn’t think . . . most people wouldn’t take a bullet for a bunch of synths.”

 

“Guess I’ve been hanging around you lunatics too long.”

 

“We’re a fun bunch, aren’t we? Look, I knew you were a good guy but this is more than that. What you did was, well, it was amazing, Mac.”

 

MacCready feels his face redden. “Ah well, all in a day’s work,” he says, blithely. 

 

Deacon shakes his head. “No, Mac, don’t shrug this off. I know I’m not one to say that, but what you did was really important. You saved a lot of lives. For a faction that you’re not even a part of. Without anyone asking you to. You could have told that Courser where the other safehouses were and no one would have ever known it was you.”

 

MacCready looks down. “I . . . I thought of you. When the Courser gave me the choice, I thought of you. Well, I also thought of the synths and how I knew their names and their room numbers and-” he realizes he’s rambling, slows down, takes a breath, “But I thought of you. And how I couldn’t put you through that. I knew you’d take it so hard.”

 

Deacon is silent for a moment, hand tightly gripping MacCready’s. He almost wishes he hadn’t said anything when Deacon speaks.

 

“Mac,” he says, his voice sounding strangled, “I would have taken you dying harder.”

 

MacCready blinks at him. “Oh. I . . . didn’t think of that.”

 

Deacon barks out a laugh, fingers pinching between his eyes. “You fucking idiot.”

 

MacCready bristles at that. “Fu-screw you, Deacon.”

 

“Relax, Mac. Just messing around.”

 

“Yeah, whatever,” MacCready mumbles, the pain in his chest making him more irritable than usual. 

 

Carrington notices he’s awake, strides over to press a hand against MacCready’s forehead. 

 

“Good, you’re feeling better.”

 

MacCready scoffs. “Better than when I was bleeding out, maybe.”

 

Deacon smirks at that but there’s a tightness around his mouth that makes MacCready think that the man didn’t really find it funny. Carrington definitely doesn’t. 

 

“You need to rest more,” he says coldly, flicking a rather intimidating needle.

 

MacCready wants to argue but the pain in his stomach and chest is almost nauseating. He nods briefly, looks away as Carrington plunges the needle into his arm. His vision immediately starts to blur, blackness playing at his edges. He keeps his eyes trained on Deacon, though, sure the spy will be gone by the time he wakes up. 

 

Deacon is watching him too, expression strangely wistful. MacCready is filled with a sudden longing and fights against the encroaching darkness. He’s not aware of reaching for Deacon but there’s his arm, shaking and bloodstained, held out toward the other man. Deacon hesitates briefly before moving closer, taking MacCready’s hand in his own again. Deacon traces a finger softly down MacCready’s cheek, lingers at the soft spot where his pulse beats strong again. It’s the last thing MacCready remembers before slipping into a dreamless sleep.

 

  * \- 



 

When he wakes again Will is asleep against the wall next to him, snoring lightly. MacCready watches him fondly for a moment before pushing himself into a sitting position, marveling at how much better he feels. He immediately casts his eyes around for Deacon, quickly locates the shock of black hair across the room. MacCready struggles to his feet, legs almost giving out from under him. He leans against the wall for support, watching as Deacon’s eyes land on him. A strange expression crosses his face and MacCready thinks it looks something like fear.

 

He makes his way over to him slowly.

 

“How’re you feeling?”

 

“Loads better,” Mac answers truthfully. 

 

Deacon runs a trembling hand through his hair. “Can we talk?”

 

Something deep in MacCready’s stomach drops at those words but he nods mutely, follows Deacon above ground. They sit on the crumbling church steps, close enough their shoulders are touching. Deacon lights a cigarette, gives it to MacCready and lights one for himself. 

 

“Mac, I’m leaving.”

 

MacCready has the sudden sensation of falling, down, down, down.

 

“What?’ he manages, chest painfully tight.

 

Deacon’s voice trembles slightly when he speaks again. “There’s a colony of synths in a place called Far Harbor.”

 

MacCready relaxes, feeling silly. Just another mission. That’s all.

 

“Oh, that’s, uh, cool. When will you be back?”

 

He’s not sure but he thinks Deacon closes his eyes behind the sunglasses.

 

“I won’t be back.”

 

And MacCready is falling again.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Deacon takes a deep drag on his smoke, exhales slowly. “I won’t be back, Mac. Not for a very long time.”

 

A part of MacCready knows what Deacon is saying but he can’t accept it. “You mean like a couple months?”

 

Deacon’s hands are still shaking when he brings the cigarette back up to his mouth. 

 

“No, Mac,” he says softly, almost a whisper, “Like years.”

 

MacCready starts falling faster, the ground rushing up to meet him.

 

“Why?” he chokes out, “And don’t you dare fucking lie to me.”

 

“Because I  _ can’t do this _ , MacCready.”

 

“W-what?” Mac stammers, feeling his eyes start to sting.

 

“I can’t be with you. I want to, almost more than anything, but I just can’t. And we’ll both get hurt if I stick around. I need,” Deacon drops his head, “I need to get away from you.”

 

Mac feels like he’s been punched in the gut and it has nothing to do with the healing gunshot wound. He can’t believe how much Deacon’s words hurt him, cutting him to the bone. 

 

“You . . . you need to get away from  _ me _ ?” he whispers and now hot tears are falling freely down his face.

 

Deacon’s face twists like he’s in pain. “Mac, Mac,” he groans, wiping the tears away with his thumb, “It’s not like that.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Deacon cradles MacCready’s face gently between his hand, looking at him over the top of his sunglasses. “Mac, I’m in love with you.”

 

MacCready stops breathing. And then he’s laughing, the sound hysterical and maybe he’s actually sobbing. 

 

“You’re gonna tell me that and then  _ leave _ ?”

 

Deacon runs a thumb down the side of MacCready’s face, a single tear dripping down his own face. “I’m so sorry.”

 

MacCready wants to push him away, scream at him, hit him. But he can’t make himself do it.

 

“Please,” he whispers, “Please, Deacon, please don’t go.”

 

Actual honest to god tears are streaming down Deacon’s face now. “I have to, Mac. I can’t be . . . I’m not good for you and I can’t be what you want. And every minute I’m with you, it’s taking me away from what I promised I’d spend the rest of my life doing. My job is to rescue synths. Not . . . this.”

 

MacCready lets out a strangled sob, giving up holding his own tears back. “You bastard.”

 

Deacon flinches but doesn’t move his hands from Mac’s face. “I know.”

 

Then Deacon is pressing into Mac, tipping his face up and kissing him. It’s the most bittersweet thing MacCready has ever experienced. Kissing Deacon is everything he imagined it would be and more, but both their faces are wet and stained with tears. He clutches at Deacon as if he can keep him here, keep kissing him forever. Too soon, though, Deacon is pulling away. 

 

“I’ll always - oh god” Deacon groans, voice thick with tears, “I will  _ always _ remember you, Mac. You are the most  - fuck - you’re perfect. In a different world . . . I wouldn’t have left your side until I dropped dead.”

 

MacCready thinks he might be sick. “Deacon, please. I love you.”

 

Deacon kisses him again and it tastes like the end. “Take care of yourself.”

 

And then he’s pulling away, presses one last kiss to Mac’s forehead. 

 

“I’ll see you again someday,” he says, “Don’t forget me.”

 

“Never.”

 

And MacCready watches one of the only people he’s ever truly loved walk away from him, watches him disappear into the setting sun. 

 

He feels himself hit the bottom and shatter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so yeah, this is pretty much the most depressing thing ever but it's, in my opinion, more realistic for Deacon's character. Let me know what y'all think of this uber-sad, shitty ending! And a huge thank you to every single person who read this sob-fest of a story, means the world to me!


End file.
